


Moonflower

by unchartedsea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family Drama, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-30 04:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 52,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10869018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unchartedsea/pseuds/unchartedsea
Summary: The moonflower means ‘dreaming of love’. Or: after years abroad, Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts as a researcher and meets Professor Longbottom.





	1. rue // repentance

**Author's Note:**

> Mature rating is for swear words, brief scenes with sexual content, and references to past war/death (nothing too bad). Tags will be added as I go.
> 
> I’ve only read the original 7. All divergences from canon are after the Battle of Hogwarts. 
> 
> Kudos, comments, subscribes and shares are all deeply appreciated!

Seven years after the war, Draco takes a late train on the Hogwarts Express.

This ensures an empty car, since avoiding the press and public is second nature now. He flips through _The Daily Prophet_. Garbage, as he remembered. Still splashing The Chosen One on page 3 and some drivel about the Weasleys on page 5. Not even a full page for international news; he almost forgot how insulated British wizards and witches are. Throwing the paper onto the opposite seat, he opts for a smoke instead.

He disembarks into a horde of early arrivals, students in house scarves shrieking as they meet their friends. Merlin, they’re loud. Soon the stagecoach carries him and a couple bug-eyed Hufflepuffs through the stately iron gates. Above looms the shadowed face of the castle.

Memories come roaring back: the Dark Lord calling for him, Crabbe consumed by fire, Dumbledore’s lifeless body. His stomach twists. He lugs his trunk out of the stagecoach and makes his way to the entrance.

A familiar figure scans the crowd from the wide steps. The Longbottom of the last school years was a presence, ever-scarred and stalking the corridors with fire in his eyes. Now he’s filled out, hunched in his shabby brown robes. He notices Draco and hesitantly waves. The motion recalls a bumbling, stupid boy chasing his miserable toad.

Draco meets him halfway, recalling the arc of a gleaming sword slicing off Nagini’s head. “Longbottom. What are you doing here?”

“Malfoy. I’m escorting you to your rooms.” Before he can protest, Longbottom lifts Draco’s trunk and begins to walk.

“Ah. I meant more... _here._ ” Draco gestures up at the castle.

“Oh, you don’t know?” As if Draco kept track of his classmates while attempting to escape his past. “I teach Herbology.”

Fitting. He thought the Hero of the Battle of Hogwarts would do something more prestigious, but pottering around a greenhouse always suited him. “It suits you.”

Longbottom eyes him warily before replying, “Heard about your research. Creating the first invisibility potions.”

“I’m an apprentice. And the potions don’t last very long yet.” The credit belongs to his boss, renowned potioneer Maxine Bernard. After his years roaming the continent, she persuaded him to take his N.E.W.T.s remotely and apprentice under her, and it saved him.

“It’s still impressive. McGonagall said you’re writing a book here on invisibility magic.”

Draco nods tightly. He hates the praise, hates the implications: _Good on you for trying to reform. Not that we’ll forgive you, but it’s a start._ He didn’t do it for his family, and he certainly didn’t do it for anyone else. “Where am I staying?”

“First-floor corridor by the library, next door to mine. You have a bedroom, bathroom, kitchenette, and study. There was something else, but...” 

Trust Longbottom’s shoddy memory. Some things never change. “I’ll manage.”

They’re silent for the rest of the walk. The despair of Draco’s last years here is tangible, making even the spacious hallways stifling. He starts when Longbottom sets down the trunk. “Here we are.”

It’s modest, but a quieter part of the castle. The study has a window seat with a view of the gardens and greenhouses. The furnishings are simple, but the dark mahogany color of the wood is pleasing. Draco brushes his fingers over the desk’s surface. When he turns, Longbottom is frowning at him. “I’m not keeping you, am I?”

“What? Oh. Yes, I should get going. You, uh, need to meet the headmistress in her office when you’re settled.” Longbottom rubs at his chin; it’s disconcerting to see how defined his jawline is. He shuffles out. Draco watches him go, wondering where the defiant champion’s stride disappeared to.

 

*

 

“Come in.”

He enters and takes a seat. It’s been a long time since he was in this office, but it’s almost unchanged. The portraits of former headmasters are ostensibly sleeping; he avoids looking at Snape.

McGonagall is the same as ever, reserved and analytical as she scans him. He straightens his posture. “Headmistress. I’m grateful for this opportunity.”

“I should hope so,” she replies wryly. “I was pleased when you applied to finish your N.E.W.T.s. Where did you do your research?”

“Six months in South Korea, four in Peru, a year in America. And some smaller trips, Lagos and Moscow and Jakarta.”

“All without a wand?”

“It’s not necessary for potions, though I often rely on my co-workers.” His wand was confiscated after the Malfoys’ post-war Wizengamot trial. Potter’s testimony saved them from Azkaban, but his parents remain under house arrest and destitute after reparations. Still, most of their friends were not so lucky—or rather, most did not turn on the Dark Lord to save themselves.

“Ms. Bernard says you have been indispensable to the research, and that she is sad to lose you for half a year.”

Draco shrugs. Modesty is a newfound trait; he’s clumsy at expressing it.

“And now you’re publishing a book. A good step to become a prestigious researcher in your own right.” There’s a glint in her eye. It’s calculating in a way that bears a startling resemblance to his mother. “How are your parents?”

He can’t say well, though it could be worse. “Happy to have me back in England.”

“Mm. I should not have to tell you that the welcome at Hogwarts may not be quite so warm.”

“No, I’m quite aware.”

The Phineas Nigellus portrait opens an eye and mutters, “This school will never appreciate the good work of a Slytherin.”

McGonagall fixes it with a stern look before continuing. “However, _I_ am very interested in your book. It will make a fine contribution to Wizarding knowledge. Should you encounter any problems at Hogwarts, I hope you will not be too proud to approach me.”

Pride, the Malfoy sin. One of many. “No.”

“Good.” She pauses. “The war scarred us all, Draco. But to heal, we cannot let it define us.”

He returns a blank stare. Pithy, but meaningless. “Indeed.”

She arches an eyebrow at him. “Onto the rules, then.”

 

*          

 

Draco starts awake, gasping for air. A repetitive dream—Nagini curling around his throat, Burbage’s body floating above him—but his heart hammers. It’s ghastly early. With a quick spell, he brews a pot of coffee. (The only advantage to his situation is how quickly he’s honed wandless magic.)

Mug in hand, he wanders into his study to look at the grounds. A soft, bluish light coats the pre-dawn. It’s not empty; a lone person tromps around in work boots and gloves. Draco’s eyes follow Longbottom as he carries large planks of wood into the greenhouse. He feels a sharp spike of annoyance. Those with wands should _use_ them. Why play-act as a Squib?

Still, Longbottom looks disgustingly cheery as he roams the garden, lavishing his plants with care. He’s happy _._ The old Draco would never have foreseen the day that he’d envy Longbottom so much.

 

*

 

Draco avoids company for the first couple days, buried in the library’s farthest corner. The house-elves even bring his meals there. But he can’t shake the nagging feeling that he’s being watched, and not by Pince, who spends most of her time glaring at patrons near the restricted section. As an accomplished Occlumens, he would sense if anyone was trying to probe his mind; there’s nothing, yet the sinister feeling remains. This place makes him anxious.

He lets off steam with frequent cigarette breaks outside. It’s still warm. He walks the length of the castle, examining the restored grounds and puffing out curls of smoke.

He avoids the gardens, but once he sees Longbottom walking by with bags of fertilizer floating in his wake. When they make eye contact, Draco offers a terse nod before hurrying off. He wants to remain dignified, but the past few years have taught him a lesson: sometimes it’s better to hide from the world than to face its wrath.

 

*

 

It’s the first day of school, and Hogwarts abounds with students. Draco delays venturing out of his study, but when he does he’s barraged with stares and whispers. Some are hostile. It’s overwhelming; he glowers at the passerby before ducking back into his room.

Unfortunately, McGonagall expects him to attend the Welcoming Feast tonight. He wears his nicest robes, plain but with an elegant cut, and prepares himself for the ordeal.

The noisy babble in the Great Hall is painful. Students crane their necks to glimpse him. He makes his way to the professors’ table, nodding at familiar faces: Sinistra, Slughorn, Flitwick, Binns. All he gathers from their expressions is curiosity. Hagrid looks both outraged and confused as he stares Draco down, but Draco ignores him, remembering the Hippogriff slash on his arm.

McGonagall catches Draco’s eye and gestures to his seat: next to Longbottom. Of course, Longbottom doesn’t notice Draco until he slides into the neighboring chair. “Malfoy. Finally joined us for dinner?”

“Yes, I couldn’t resist being paraded around.” Sarcasm has always been his favorite coping mechanism. “I see you’re Head of Gryffindor House.”

“Well, McGonagall couldn’t keep it and run a school.”

“Obviously,” he sneers. “The Gryffindors must be busy. Can’t teach and rebuild England at the same time.”

Longbottom stiffens, and it brings some of his heroic profile back into his face. “ _Our_ house isn’t responsible for that.”

Typical. Still, Draco can’t afford to be hexed today, so it’s not worth wading into those waters. He says carefully, “The faculty must have changed considerably to give the post to someone so young.”

After a beat, Longbottom’s frame softens. “Yes, but it’s strange to sit up here and act knowledgeable next to all my professors.”

“It’s an act then? Figures.”

The corners of Longbottom’s mouth turn up. At least he’s shed enough righteousness to unearth a sense of humor. “Flitwick still makes me feel I’ve forgotten my Charms homework. Imagine if Snape were here.” Draco’s caught off-guard and flinches at the name. Longbottom catches on and changes the subject.  “You’ve changed your wardrobe.”

“What? Oh.” He doesn’t wear black robes anymore, since they make him too recognizable. He’s taken to a drab palette of grays and whites. “Black’s not my color.”

Longbottom’s eyes slide to the tuft of black cloth peeking out from under Draco’s left sleeve. It covers the faded scar of his Dark Mark. Draco pulls the sleeve further over his wrist.

It drags back a memory from sixth year. Draco was sobbing in a stairwell when Longbottom stumbled across him. He tried to comfort Draco, offering a ragged handkerchief with concerned eyes, clueless as to what lurked under Draco’s sleeve. Draco insulted him and fled. He remembers saying, _“Even though you’re not a Mudblood, you’re still scum.”_

Shit. He hates himself a little more.  
  
Longbottom swallows from his goblet and then clears his throat. “You look healthier than you did. More like you eat.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Charming, aren’t you?” But he sees that Longbottom has broader shoulders now, likely from hours of gardening work. His haircut was a good investment, and Bubotuber pus must have cleared up his skin. He’s not quite handsome, but he’s not the teenage Longbottom of yesteryear.

Shallow, but he’s a Malfoy. It’s almost a comfort that his ancestry is responsible for so many of his flaws.

“Sorry.” Longbottom fidgets with his napkin, nearly knocking his fork onto the floor. “Didn’t mean to be rude.”

“It’s fine.” Draco glances at the students pointing his way. Anxiety prickles up his spine. He needs this conversation to distract him. “How’d you get the job then?”

“Pomona—er, Professor Sprout trained me. After the war, I almost became an Auror. Gran was pleased. But Professor Sprout wanted to retire. She let me work under her supervision for a few years and then turned the job over.”

“An Auror?” Draco can’t picture it. Maybe the Longbottom from the war years, but that Longbottom looked thoroughly miserable. “To be with Weasley and Potter?”

He shrugs. “Just to do something. I like them, but we’re not close.”

“What, no band of heroes?”

Longbottom flushes. “Hardly. My best friends are still Ginny and Luna, though.”

“Lovegood? That—” He stops himself.

Longbottom waits, but when Draco doesn’t continue, he says, “Yes. She writes for _The Quibbler_. I think she’s in Tashkent or Astana.” There’s a pause, but Draco refuses to ask what nonsense she’s pursuing there. “You? Any friends from your school days?”

Draco shakes his head. Few of his former admirers speak to him, and he would hardly count the fair-weather attentions of Blaise and Pansy as friendship. “Haven’t met any since I went abroad. You’re the first classmate I’ve seen in years.”

Before Longbottom can reply, McGonagall stands up and claps her hands together. The ceremony begins. Draco suffers her brief introduction; she mentions his research, but doesn’t embark on any drivel about learning from the past. Thank Merlin. He excuses himself before the Sorting starts and escapes to his books.

 

*

 

Most people leave him alone except McGonagall, who always stops him in the hallway to ask how he’s doing. He makes excruciating small talk with Slughorn and Vector, but rebuffs questions from the students who pester him in the library.

Not to forget Peeves, who gleefully zooms over yelling, “Ferret boy! Ferret boy returns!” Draco’s practiced at ignoring taunts now, so he doesn’t respond. The poltergeist exacts revenge by occasionally pelting chalk at him on his way to the toilet.

 

*

 

The indigo skies brim with brooding clouds. Students return inside. Draco should join them, but his mind is occupied with memories. Every detail is vivid: bursts of light whizzing past his face, tortured screams, stumbling around the bodies of the dead, the ground shifting and rumbling as the castle collapsed.

He glances up at the Astronomy Tower. According to Potter, Dumbledore had saved them, even after the ruddy old man died. He still remembers the body tipping over the edge, the light dimming from sparkling blue eyes as Snape cast the Killing Curse.

He finds himself walking to the White Tomb. The famed, platitude-spouting wizard is now a shriveled corpse in it, rotting away. Draco stares down at it, then lights a cigarette with trembling hands.

Footsteps approach. He instinctively reaches for a nonexistent wand. A voice calls out, “What are you doing here?” It’s Longbottom, fixing him with a suspicious look. He’s carrying a lantern, casting a yellow glow across the marble.

Draco turns away from the tomb. “Nothing.” He takes a long drag to steady himself.

“Oh. Came to pay your respects?” Longbottom lowers the lantern.

“Something like that.”

Longbottom takes up Draco’s position, looking down at the white slab. “I know a lot of people want to disgrace him now with details of his past. But to me, he’ll always be one of the greatest men who ever lived.”

Draco huffs out a laugh. “Everything you say is so bloody on script, isn’t it? Dumbledore’s champion.”

Longbottom’s voice goes steely. “Better than betraying everything he stood for.”

“Right. That’s my cue.” He throws his cigarette on the ground, stomping on it with his heel, and begins to stalk towards the castle.

“Wait. Wait, Malfoy, I’m sorry.” There’s a clattering noise. Draco turns back to see Longbottom stooping to pick up the lantern, now extinguished. “I was being unfair.”

Draco replies coldly, “Why? You’re right, aren’t you?”

“Don’t. I didn’t mean it.”

His lip curls. What a pathetic lie. “I tried to kill him. Voldemort threatened my family, so I spent a whole year trying to poison your precious Dumbledore.”

Longbottom looks like he’s been Stupefied. “…But Snape killed him. They planned it. Harry said so.”

“I didn’t know that, did I? At least I botched the job.”

Longbottom’s stunned into silence. But his gaze brims with pity rather than hatred, which might be worse.

“I shouldn’t have come back.” Draco balls his hands into fists, looking back. The white rectangle gleams against the dark waters of the lake.

Longbottom rocks on his heels, looking uncomfortable. “Isn’t this a chance, though? To make up for everything?”

Draco scoffs. “Give it a rest.” He turns and heads for the castle, and Longbottom wisely chooses not to follow him.


	2. amaryllis // pride

Thanks to the nightmares, watching Longbottom garden at an ungodly hour becomes habit. It’s not purposeful; Draco’s window seat has a specific view, and if Longbottom happens to be in his line of sight, so be it. Only in a moment of weakness would he admit that it’s soothing. Sometimes he cracks the window open to hear Longbottom speak to the flora in his Yorkshire lilt.

He still ignores Longbottom in passing. There’s nothing to say.

*

 

Soon cataloguing is over and he begins reading some of the thicker tomes he’s reserved. Mid-afternoon sunlight casts a warm glow over the library. It’s too bright. Draco shifts seats to escape the glare and dives back into the book.

The chair opposite him scrapes the floor. Conscious of the invisible eyes that haunt him here, he jumps. Someone looms over him with a pile of scrolls, so backlit that their face is a dark shadow. “Do you mind? No other seats left.”

Draco stares at Longbottom for a second, baffled, before gesturing at the seat. “You’re about to sit, aren’t you?” He can’t imagine that their last conversation encouraged this friendly gesture, but he’s not going to acknowledge that it happened, either.

Longbottom sits and unrolls his scrolls. Grading tests. Determined not to show his discomfort, Draco tunes out the _scritch scritch_ of the quill and spends the next hour reading the biography of Zygmunt Budge. While not very informative, he likes the idea of isolating himself on a remote island to concoct new potions. He’s tired of people.

Speaking of, Longbottom’s voice startles him. “You still don’t eat meals in the Great Hall.”

Draco frowns. He’s trying to work. “I eat here.”

“Right.” A pause. He turns back to his book, but Longbottom interrupts again. “I know you didn’t come back with us to finish seventh year, but I thought you’d still be friends with Goyle and Zabini and Parkinson.”

“Why? I’m supposed to be the same person I was in school?”

“That’s not what I said.”  
  
“Is there a reason you’re here, Longbottom?”

Longbottom shrugs, his brown eyes challenging. “No. Am I bothering you?”

His mind spins three beautifully crafted retorts, all designed to sting where it hurts, but he’s trying to be a halfway-decent person now. “I’m busy. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get on.”

Longbottom desists. Draco immerses himself in the biography again.

When he looks up, the sky is darkening. Longbottom is gone. The house-elves have left him chicken stew and rice. He eats slowly, trying to ward off his lonelier thoughts.

 

*

 

Draco almost collides with Madam Hooch in the hallway as he turns a corner. He doesn’t know what happened to her in the war, but she glowers at him before stalking off.

He decides not to attend any Quidditch games.

 

*

 

Longbottom joins him at his library table a couple times a week. He doesn’t say a word. Draco isn’t sure why McGonagall has put him up to this, but he disregards his new companion. Students stop by to ask Longbottom questions about class. Some are clearly gaga for their professor, famous leader of the DA. Draco can’t tell if Longbottom is oblivious or a well-trained actor.  

Still, when Longbottom’s there, the feeling of being watched dissipates. At least an experienced, armed wizard is around. He relaxes enough that one day he starts humming.

Longbottom starts. “You like Spellbound?”

“Sorry?” Draco blinks at him, not comprehending. “I don’t know what that is.”

“A band. You were humming their song.”

“Oh. It was on the radio.”

“I thought you’d like, dunno, Mozart or something.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I assume you’re familiar with the idea that one person can like two things.”

Longbottom merely replies, “That’s true.” That’s it, and they return to their work.

Another day, Longbottom stares at him until it grows uncomfortable. Draco snaps, “Don’t let your eyes pop out of your head.”

Longbottom reddens. “Sorry. Did you grow your hair out because, ah, to look like your father?”

“No. It’s family tradition.” Plus, his father’s hair doesn’t look the same at all. Draco keeps it shorter, just past his shoulder blades, and it’s always tied back with ribbon.

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. Why is your hair short?”

“Well that’s normal, isn’t it? Anyway, I didn’t mean anything by it. It looks nice.”

Draco has nothing to say to that.

These snippets of conversation perplex him. If Longbottom kept prying, Draco would have a reason to send him away, but they never lead anywhere. They don’t discuss how Draco let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, or how his demented aunt tortured Longbottom’s parents into going mad, or the myriad reasons why Longbottom should Transfigure Draco into a toadstool as vengeance.

 

*

 

Somebody leaves a copy of _Witch Weekly_ outside Draco’s office, open to page 12. The headline: “Disgraced Death Eater Returns to Hogwarts to Restore Family Name.”

The urge to use a fire-making spell rises. Instead he takes it inside his room, shreds the article into neat pieces, and burns them on the stove.

 

*

 

He stops by McGonagall’s office to report on his progress. They drink oolong tea and chat while she writes letters. She gets straight to the point. “People haven’t been as angry as you’d feared?”

“No. I expected worse. If I might ask, though.” He pauses, dreading the answer. “Madam Hooch?”

McGonagall’s mouth twists. “Badly injured. Lost a brother and a good friend. I take it that’s why you missed the Slytherin-Ravenclaw match.” His jaw stiffens, but he doesn’t reply. “Any other questions?”

“Why did you ask Longbottom to sit with me in the library?” He hates how childish the question sounds. It reminds him of how he used to act with Snape; he hazards a peek, but the portrait remains fast asleep.

“Is he disturbing you?”

“I don’t need company to read my books. If it’s out of concern, I can handle myself.”

“I admit to being concerned, Draco. However, you are mistaken. I have not requested that Professor Longbottom do anything of the sort.”

Draco blinks at her. “What?” Gathering himself, he clears his throat. “Oh. Never mind, then.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. Thank you.”

“I look forward to the next update.” She’s smirking at him; if she wasn’t so eminent and respectable, he’d give her the finger.

He whisks out of her office, down the winding staircase and outside to the gardens. How dare Longbottom use the Headmistress as a flimsy excuse? Throwing the greenhouse door open, he’s met with a class of wide-eyed, earmuffed teenagers wrestling baby Mandrakes. Longbottom is behind them, looking horrified. The plants chorus an ear-splitting shriek, and Draco braces himself as he faints. 

He awakens with a ringing in his ears and opens his eyes. The familiar ceiling of the hospital wing. A green-faced child flips through _Magical Creatures Monthly_ in the opposite bed. He turns to his left to see Longbottom in a chair, holding out a glass of water. “You’re lucky the Mandrakes are so young. You’ve only been out for a few hours.”

Draco groans and drains the glass. “Wasn’t in my best frame of mind. Did you cancel class to bring me here?”

Longbottom shrugs. “Had to.”

“Sorry.”

Longbottom shakes his head and leans in closer. The intensity in his eyes is surprising. “I’d prefer a guarantee that you won’t risk your life to interrupt my class again.”

He doesn’t need a lecture. Still, he replies, “Consider it done.”

Longbottom eases back into his chair. “Why’d you stop by?”

Draco had forgotten. “I came to ask why you _watch_ me in the library, since McGonagall didn’t request it.” The kid peeks out over her magazine, so he lowers his voice to an enraged whisper. “I know my history isn’t a comfort, but I have no wand, which means a first-year could out-duel me. You don’t have to trust me, but I’m here under the authority of the Headmistress, so you don’t have the right to spy on me.”

Longbottom holds his hands up. “I’m not spying on you, Malfoy.” He glances at the curious girl, who ducks back into the pages. “Let’s postpone this before Madam Pomfrey hears us disturbing the other patient.”

Draco eyes the little girl. “Fine. When?”

Longbottom scratches his chin. “Tomorrow morning? My office at ten.”

Draco nods before yawning, feeling the latent effects of being knocked out. As Longbottom stands to go, Madam Pomfrey enters. Draco is too busy being scolded to see his visitor leave.

 

*

 

The greenhouse is empty when he arrives. Draco brushes a few vines away from his face as he enters. He’s never had a talent for growing things, but research has taught him to appreciate plants in a way he never did during school. Behind the Puffapods is an impressive supply of dittany and wormwood.

He likes the peaceful atmosphere and the soft filter of sunlight through the glass. Vibrant colors poke out from among the green. The rich smell of earth and heady floral scents is intoxicating.

The Herbology office door swings open to reveal Longbottom, a streak of mud under his eye. “Sorry, let me just.” He shuffles papers and pots to make room on his desk. There’s a box of Screechsnap seedlings as well; they squeak indignantly when moved. Draco slides into a chair, and Longbottom places a chipped teacup in front of him. “Tea preference? Actually, I’ve only got English breakfast.”

“That’s fine.” Draco gazes around at the shelves, books stashed among spades and gloves and pots. Somehow it’s still neater than it was in Sprout’s day.

He pulls out his cigarette case, but Neville shakes his head. “Please don’t smoke around the plants.”

“Right.” He slips it back into his pocket, wishing he could occupy his hands.

Longbottom drops a teabag into each cup, conjures up some hot water and takes a seat. “Sleep well?”

“Yes. Should have started using Mandrakes ages ago.” Longbottom’s expression is more concerned than amused. He quickly moves on. “What about you?”

“Like a log. I’ve always been lucky on that front. I used to have nightmares that I’d oversleep Defense Against the Dark Arts.” He pauses, but Draco only waits. Longbottom exhales through his nose. “I didn’t mean to imply that McGonagall set me on your tail. And I don’t sit with you because you’re a threat to Hogwarts.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “No? Isn’t that the heroic Gryffindor way? Throw yourself into the path of danger?”

A blush creeps up Longbottom’s neck. “Maybe at first, but you’re not a danger. Like you said, no wand. I just wanted to know what you’re like now.”

“And? What am I like?”

“I don’t know how much you’ve changed yet.” Longbottom seems to gather up his courage before looking Draco in the eyes. “But you seem like you could use friendly company.”

Draco stares at him like he’s sprouted dragon horns. “Yours? You want us to be a symbol of post-war healing?”

“I’m not doing it for anyone’s approval. I thought you could use someone to talk to.” He winces at Draco’s expression. “I’ve seen you watching me from the window. In the mornings, sometimes.”

The horror of discovery dawns in Draco and stains his cheeks pink. He replies icily, “You _happened_ to be under my window. That doesn’t mean I was watching you. Contrary to popular belief, we don’t all spend our time mooning over you.”

“No, I’m not—you looked like you wanted to join me in the garden. That’s all. And I wondered why.”

“I don’t, and I don’t want your damn pity.”

“Really, it’s not pity. If you haven’t noticed, everyone here is either half or twice my age.”

“So you’d choose someone who spent years tormenting you? The person who let the Carrows into Hogwarts? Henchman to Voldemort?”

“You don’t regret it?”

“What? I…” He looks down at the wriggling Screechsnaps. “That’s irrelevant.”

Longbottom’s voice softens. “I don’t think so. Sixth year, Dumbledore, that’s all been cleared up. The war wasn’t a good time for any of us, certainly not for you. Plus you saved Harry’s life, so you can’t have been really evil.”

Draco’s irritation flares again. “Oh, how _noble_ you are.”

“No, Malfoy, I didn’t mean—”

“If you’re looking for a reason to restore your faith in wizardkind, do yourself a favor and don’t make it me. I didn’t lie because of my golden heart. I protected myself by not doing moronic, courageous things like you lot.”

Longbottom gives him a piercing look. “Did you? That’s why you look like a half-ghost all the time?”

Draco is speechless.

At least Longbottom has the decency not to triumph in this feat. “I don’t want to argue. But if you come to the greenhouses, I could use the help, and you could pick out herbs you want for potions. We don’t have to talk.”

Draco stands and coolly replies, “No, thank you. My apologies for raising my voice.” Placing his teacup down, he leaves the office.


	3. plumeria // beginnings

When he returns to his rooms, a note is taped to his door. In abysmal print, they’ve written, _DEATH EATER FILTH HAS NO PLACE HERE._ Cursed, he assumes. He fishes a quill from his pocket. Reaching out, Draco brushes feathers against the paper.

The quill bursts into flames. With a muttered _Aguamenti,_ he manages to conjure up just enough water to douse the quill and the note, which crumbles and disintegrates. He scrunches his nose at the mess left behind.       

Malicious, but poorly executed. Probably a student. He steps over the puddle and goes inside to find a spare towel.

 

*

 

Draco stops getting visits from Longbottom while perusing books. He vacates his window seat. Their conversation nags at him, though, a miserable itch under his skin.

He hates being cooped up in the library with hordes of children. His focus lags. The nightmares worsen. He owls his parents, but he can only bring himself to send good news. The false cheer in his mother’s reply is depressing. He also owls Maxine, but just with an inquiry for the book.

Strolling into the Three Broomsticks for a pint would be foolish. He tries visiting the house-elves, but he riles them up by mentioning S.P.E.W. and is shooed out of the kitchens. He’d felt alone when he was abroad, but there he bumped up against strangers. Now he can’t blow off his feelings with a shag or a night out, and his right hand bores him. He’s stuck.

 

*

 

A week later, the unbearable nightmare of the Dark Lord murdering his mother jolts him awake. He pours himself a hefty dose of coffee and walks to the window, in need of distraction. Longbottom is there, fussing over Flutterby bushes. A few minutes later he turns and, upon noticing Draco, lifts a tentative hand.

Draco looks him dead in the eyes, sighs, and disappears back into his room to change. A few minutes later, he’s outside in worn-out slacks and a fleece to ward off the first chill of late September. The sun peeks over the tree line; the garden is cast in a purple hue. Longbottom approaches Draco as if a Blast-Ended Skrewt wandered onto the grounds. “You came.”

Draco’s disdainful sniff is reflexive. “I’m here for research. As a potioneer, I should learn more about working with plants.”

“Do you sleep at all?”

“None of your business,” he snaps. Neville looks taken aback; Draco realizes that it was a harmless question. He crosses his arms. “Not well.”

“I suppose that works out for me. Fancy a go at the Snargaluff pods?”

Draco almost protests until he realizes that this is Longbottom’s idea of humor. He scowls. “Save the jokes until daylight hours.”

Longbottom looks inordinately pleased with himself. “A tour, then.” He leads the way, pointing out useful plants for potion-making. His efficiency is a pleasant surprise, but many rare varieties need explaining. By the time they make it through the first greenhouse, it’s breakfast hour.

Longbottom sets his gloves down and wipes himself off at a sink. There’s mud on his cheekbone, but Draco doesn’t bother pointing it out. “Still not eating in the hall?”

Draco brushes his thumb against the soft underbelly of some _mimosa pudica,_ watching the leaves curl away from his touch. “Notoriety makes me lose my appetite. I prefer to eat alone.”

“I see.” It doesn’t sound like he does.

“Thank you. For the tour. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway. “If I’m disturbing you, send me away.”

Longbottom replies firmly, “You’re welcome any time you like, long as you follow orders.”

_My forte._ With a nod, he exits and heads back to his books. As he leaves, he hears the faint sounds of Longbottom talking to his plants. A strange one, that man.

 

*

 

He dreams that Venomous Tentacula are strangling him, but Longbottom arrives with a rubber sword and whacks them until the plants release their hold. It’s bizarre, but if Draco’s being honest, it’s a nice change of pace.

 

*

 

Three mornings that week, Draco arrives at the greenhouses, courtesy of his horrible dreams. They launch into the next parts of the tour. The next week, he arrives with dark circles in tow and offers to lend a hand. They collect cabbages and an early batch of giant pumpkins in the half-light. 

It seems that Neville handles the gardens by himself, with Hagrid tending the rest of the grounds, so they’re alone. The conversation is minimal and polite, but sometimes Draco catches himself humming again.

“So what happened to you?”

“Excuse me?” Draco neatly slices a vine with his knife.

Longbottom hauls another pumpkin onto the pile. He seems to prefer physical gardening to using magic. “I know about the Wizengamot trial, but after that.”

Draco inhales slowly. “I didn’t come here for an interrogation.”

“Sorry. It’s not. I’m asking.”

He glares at Longbottom, but relents. Most of it is public knowledge anyway. “Spent a year in England after the trial ended. Couldn’t go outside without being shouted at or hexed or, on one occasion, punched in the gut. By a Weasley, no less.”

Draco expects Longbottom to look pleased, but instead his brows knit together. “Ron? Ginny? They never mentioned it.”

“The oldest one.”

“Percy? Bloody hell.”

“I assume you heard about Loretta’s Love Draughts.” He found a post with a mail-order love potions company that let him work from Malfoy Manor. When the news was leaked, the voracious press pounced, and Draco was fired.

Longbottom rubs the back of his neck with a gloved hand. “Forgot about that.”

“Yes. Not a great year.” He either lashed out at his parents or buried himself in the Manor library. He tried to drink himself into a stupor, but ironically, his tastes were too refined to handle cheap liquor, so he gave it up.

“And then?”

Then he thought about ending it all, maybe just to spite his parents, but memories of his desperation to survive the war plagued him: a weight in his lungs, a stone on his chest.

“Draco?”

“Oh, Mother begged me to go abroad, so I did. Supposed to stay with a family friend, but we had a row and I was duly kicked to the street. Spent the next couple years wandering the continent, picking up odd jobs. Anonymity was nice, but then I met Maxine. Found a chance to have a career again in potions, and I took it. You know the rest.”

Longbottom tilts his head. “That’s it?”

Draco fixes him with an affronted look. “If you want the racy version, read a tabloid. I’m afraid all I can tell you is the truth.”

That must be sufficient, because Longbottom doesn’t question him further. They resume their pattern of quiet work.

 

*

 

Draco has the distinct sense that somebody has broken into his office. Nothing’s missing, but he can feel that things are out of place. Did they ransack his room? At least they were neat about it.

His wandless magic is weaker, but whoever undid his locking spells still must be an advanced witch or wizard. He doubles up on protective charms. He tries asking the opposite portrait of a dancing woman and her bear if she saw anything. She sniffs and replies in a thick Russian accent, “I have better things to do,” so he leaves it at that.

 

*

 

The next week, he goes to the garden almost every day. On Saturday, Longbottom says, “I’m afraid Sundays are a no-go. We can finish on Monday.”

“Regular commitment?”

Longbottom offers a weary smile. “St. Mungo’s.”

A pang of guilt stabs Draco in the chest. He falters before saying, “Ah. I’m sorry.”

Longbottom shakes his head. “Don’t. You’re not your aunt. Anyhow, I’m not sorry. I’m lucky to be their son.”

Draco can’t muster a reply. Raised by his fearsome grandmother, with incredible parents reduced to broken dolls in St. Mungo’s… Well, it’s no wonder he was such a pitiful, sniveling child despite his family name.

He spends the rest of the morning gathering the last of the dittany. While handing his pail to Longbottom, he clears his throat. “I know you don’t want apologies, but.” His eyes dart away. “I apologize. For everything, over the years.”

Longbottom looks dumbfounded, but half-smiles as he takes the pail into his dirt-streaked hands. “I appreciate it. I know you don’t want to hear any hogwash about being reformed, but you’re kind, aren’t you? Never thought that before.”

Draco stiffens. “Do you filter any of your thoughts, or do you just spew out whatever comes to your mind?”

Longbottom returns an amused grin. “I spoke too soon, eh?”

Unbelievable. Draco places his gloves on the table. “Clearly.” He turns on his heel to exit.

Longbottom calls after him, “Have a nice weekend, Malfoy!”

 

*

 

Draco wakes up Sunday morning feeling lost without his new routine. He wanders the gardens, but he can’t tend to anything without Longbottom’s supervision. 

Instead he crouches next to some nettles. What’s the point in talking to plants? Longbottom insists that they’re good listeners; he must speak the plant cousin of Parseltongue.

The only way to know is to test. “I don’t sleep well. Longbottom, though, hasn’t asked why I don’t take Sleeping Draughts. Not that we talk much, but is he being considerate? Or is he not bright enough to put two and two together?”

The nettles give no feedback, which makes them terrible listeners.

 

*

 

Longbottom looks drained on Monday as they weed around the moly. Draco doesn’t comment until the yawns become obnoxious. “Longbottom, did you sleep last night?”

“Coming from you?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a distraction.”

Running a dirty hand through his tousled hair, Longbottom gives him a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Matter of fact, I was up late fighting with Gran. She wants to arrange a match for me.”

“Ah.” That’s one thing they have in common: pureblood families, pureblood expectations. “Not looking to find yourself a nice girl?”  
  
“Or boy.”

That’s a surprise. Strange, too, that Longbottom is so open about it. To be out in the pureblood community requires more courage than Draco could summon in a lifetime. He realizes he’s staring and turns back to the earth. “…Or boy.”

“Well, I’d like to choose my partner for myself.” Longbottom savagely yanks out a weed. “And I don’t see any need to settle at 25.”

“It’s not uncommon, though.” Draco picks up a spade and digs around the black roots, careful not to disturb them. “In normal circumstances, I’d already be married into a family of standing.”

“You’re going to be matched?”

“Depends if anyone will have me, doesn’t it?” He’s not sure why he’s sharing this, but it’s no secret that his value has plummeted.

“I suppose.” Longbottom mulls it over, as if he’s never considered that anyone would consent to it. He must live in a fantasy land. “But they’d have you now, wouldn’t they? Prestigious researcher and all.”

“To a pureblood with no wand and no money. A thoroughbred, like a racehorse or a show dog.”

“You can’t think of yourself like that.”

The reply is silence. Longbottom looks perilously close to a speech, but Draco brushes it off with a wave of his hand. “Not that pureblood is all that different. Magic is magic.”

“Is that a joke?"

“Sod off, you self-righteous arse. I’ve spent more time with Muggles than you. I can even work a telly.”

Longbottom turns to gape at him. “You have Muggle friends?”

Draco pauses before replying with a crooked smile, “I’m not much at making friends.” He stands up to give his knees a rest and brushes soil off his pants. “Employers. Easier to get hired in the Muggle world.”

“Oh.”

“Have you?”

“Huh? Oh, a couple. Neighbors who like to garden. It’s hard, though, to watch everything you say. They live in a different world.”

“Yes. It’s nice sometimes. It’s almost ingenious how they make up for their tedious lives. There’s a lot of variety in Muggle life, and the Wizarding world,” Draco gestures at the castle, “is so enclosed.” He flexes his right hand, feeling the phantom sensation of his wand between his fingers. “But you miss magic.”

He turns and realizes that Longbottom looks floored. No wonder; Draco hasn’t talked about himself at all, has he? The gap between his current self and the foolish teenager he was seems vast.

Longbottom asks quietly, “How do you get on without?”

“Necessity, I suppose. Wandless for the small things. It acts up sometimes when I don’t use magic enough, like with children except with more potency. Once I got agitated and Transfigured an ottoman into a live moose. It ate part of the sofa before Mother changed it back.”

Longbottom laughs, a warm sound, and Draco’s proud of himself. He fancied himself clever before (the obvious _before_ ) and he misses having an audience. “Is that why you like potions? You can get by without a wand, right?”

“Generally, but no, that’s not why I like it. It’s like Herbology. You’re talented and you found yourself wanting to make a name, correct? Contribute something worthwhile to the field.”

Longbottom gives him a thoughtful look. “Want to see my current project?”

They make their way to a near-empty back room. Longbottom shuts the door, enveloping them in inky black. Draco freezes, fighting the urge to cast a wandless _Lumos_. Longbottom’s hand presses down on his shoulder, his breath brushing Draco’s ear as he says, “Here.” Draco remains baffled as he hears the swish of a curtain being drawn back.

The motion reveals a couple flowering shrubs that emit light. Each flower has a glowing golden center, and the white petals radiate a softer, pulsating light. The smell is sweet and earthy. Draco asks reverently, “Longbottom, what is this?”

“ _Lumonium astridae,_ a magical variety of the moonflower. Rare and native to Fiji. A research team asked me to grow some in total darkness to see if that strengthens its properties. It’s a fussy one. Takes a lot of care and nurture to bloom.”

“What are the properties?”

“Hard to say now. Early tests indicate use for memory recovery or trauma. It’s too soon to rule out other possibilities. We won’t know until I send it back to them.”

He wonders if this project is for Longbottom’s parents, but asking seems too touchy. “I’m impressed that you can part with it. Aren’t you half in love with all your average plants?”

Longbottom chuckles. “Parting isn’t so bad with plants. If you miss them, you grow them again.” He draws the curtain back, then cracks the door.

The light is blinding. Draco shields his eyes. “Merlin’s saggy pants.”

“Sorry, give it a minute.” Once their eyes have adjusted, Longbottom turns his way. “You can call me Neville, by the way.”

“I could.” Draco’s voice is doubtful, but he doesn’t turn the offer down. Purely because it would be rude.

“And I could call you Draco?” He rubs at his stubbly chin, which Draco now recognizes as a nervous tic.

“If you like.” Draco tucks a stray hair behind his ear. “I’m going. Research waits for no wizard.”

“Right. Goodbye, Draco.” Longbottom—no, Neville looks too smug for his liking.

He tries to sound offhand as he leaves. “Goodbye, Neville.”


	4. pear blossom // friendship

He sleeps well for a couple of nights, so he doesn’t garden or run into Neville. Plus he finds a useful volume and spends his days copying down meticulous notes. Someone scratches ‘traitor’ into his door, but he erases it without a second thought.

On the third day, the soft knock on the office door is so unexpected that Draco dismisses it as his imagination. The knuckles rap louder a second time, and he calls out, “Come in.”

It’s a tiny student, looking frightened out of her wits. “Professor Longbottom sent me, sir. He said he wanted me to deliver this.” She hands him a box wrapped in newspaper.

Mystified, he takes it from her. “Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Leilani, sir.”

He unwraps the messy packaging and opens the box. Inside are stylish dragonhide gardening gloves and a note: _Thought you ought to own a pair of your own. Nice throwback to school days, right? – NL_

It’s not too expensive. Moreover, Neville seems to have charmed them, since they fit perfectly. Draco decides that protesting will be futile. He gives Leilani a reply message to deliver: _If you’re bribing me back to the garden, it worked. Good to see you can think like a Slytherin. – DM_

 

*

 

When he enters the greenhouse the next Monday, new gloves in hand, he sees a head of blonde curls that don’t belong to the Herbology professor he expects. Even more bizarre is the multicolored, feathered hat sitting atop those curls, as well as the necklace of tiny bones and the fearsome amount of ruffles on the bright green robes.

Ah. Loony Lovegood in full form.

She gives him a dreamy, faraway smile that unsettles him. “Hallo, Draco. Come to say good morning to the plants?”

“I suppose so.”

“I came last night to surprise Neville. I was abroad, you know. Father heard chatter on the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. It didn’t work out, but I did go on a date with an Uzbek vampire. However, his ideas on gnomes were quite uninformed. Thought they all wore red caps.”

He can’t respond to this onslaught of absurdity so early in the morning. Still, he has amends to force out. “About the last time—when you were in the Manor, in the dungeons…”

She waves him off with a casual hand. “That wasn’t your doing. I made some lovely friends, too. Goblins are very interesting.”

Bemused but glad to be spared the apology, he asks, “Where’s Neville?”

“Don’t worry. He slept in, but he’s almost here.”

As if on cue, Neville bursts through the doors. “Sorry! Oh, Draco. I didn’t tell you Luna was coming, did I? I’m scattered. Couldn’t find my alarm clock. It’s in the mess, though, so don’t you start about Nargles, Luna.” Lovegood gives Draco a knowing look that he’s unable to return.

Then she says, “Let’s skip gardening today and eat breakfast. You’re right that he doesn’t eat enough, and everyone knows too much coffee will give you Florting Flies.”

It takes Draco a second to realize that the ‘he’ in question is himself. “That’s not necessary. I’ll leave you two to catch up.”

“No need,” Lovegood replies cheerily. “I’m staying for a few days. And I wanted to ask how you’re incorporating Thestrals into your invisibility research.”

“Thestrals?”

“Oh dear. I’ll explain. To Hogsmeade then?”

Neville gives Draco a hesitant look. Resigned, Draco nods. He’s lost his chance to escape.

Lovegood spends the walk describing the possible shapes of Snorkack horns to Neville. Draco shrinks into his robes to stay unnoticed. It fails, naturally, since his companions are also famous and one of them dresses like (and very well could be) a madwoman.

As they enter The Three Broomsticks, every eye turns their way. He straightens to channel a measure of stateliness. Then Lovegood turns to him and says matter-of-factly, “If you stand too tall, a Wrackspurt may perch on you.” Neville fails to stifle a laugh, and Draco goes red with indignation as they’re guided to a corner booth.

He orders black coffee and an omelette. She opts for a stack of pancakes; Neville gets a massive plate of eggs, toast, sausage, bacon, baked beans, and Morgana knows what else. Between bites, Neville tries to draw Draco into the conversation, but he refuses to discuss the generational curse behind Finnigan’s disastrous love life or Kingsley Shacklebolt’s Heliopath army.

Lovegood switches topics. “Neville, how are your parents?”

Neville gives Draco an uncomfortable sidelong glance, so he pretends to be preoccupied with glaring at the other patrons. “Mum’s the same. They said Dad’s not responding to treatment as well as they’d hoped, but I didn’t expect much. Gran’s cut up again, though; I think that’s why she’s on at me over marriage.”

She nods sagely before looking at Draco. “If love is meant to happen, it’ll happen.” He doesn’t bother to consider why she’s directed this his way, turning back down to cut a neat square from his omelette.  
  
Neville remains oblivious and polishes off the last of his toast. “What about Xenophilius?”

“He thinks marriage will give me scabies.”

At this one, even Draco can’t help snorting. The other two stare at him in wonder, but he remains stubbornly silent until they move on.

The affair isn’t quite as painful as he thought it would be. Even Lovegood’s ridiculous bunkum is scattered with flashes of insight. When Neville’s in the toilet, she interrupts her own description of how to find wild Thestrals. “It’s nice that you’re writing this book. Your parents would be the happiest to see you happy.”

He’s so astonished that he barely manages to say, “They are.”

Her owlish gaze is disconcerting.  “The same applies to you.”

Of course it does. He doesn’t care what the public thinks, but he’ll be happy when his father wears respect like a robe again. He’ll be happy with the smile on his mother’s face as she holds a grandchild. He doesn’t tell Lovegood any of this, and she resumes the Thestrals spiel.

Neville returns, looking far too entertained by Draco’s expression. “Ready to go, then?”

Draco’s yes is emphatic, but he endures her Blibbering Humdinger stories until they mercifully separate at the castle.

 

*

 

Someone sends a photo to the _Prophet,_ but only Draco and Lovegood are in it. It must have been taken when Neville went to the toilet. They’re chatting, but the front page headline reads, “Secret Lovers Exposed! Malfoy Heir Besotted with Quibbler Editor!”

His mother sends a concerned note which he immediately replies to, disabusing her of the farce. Blaise pens a delighted letter asking about a spring engagement. Pansy threatens to deliver Draco to St. Mungo’s herself; he assuages her by promising to drop by her New Year’s party. Neither mentions how long it’s been since they met in person.

He runs into Lovegood the next afternoon, strolling the hallways. When he brings up the article, she replies, “Dean told me, but don’t worry. I told my friends you’ve taken a strong interest in Thestrals.” Her explanation is decidedly worse, but he has no other choice than to leave it be.

 

*

 

It doesn’t end there, because Weasley—the girl—arrives a few days later. He’s walking down the corridor with a couple library books when he sees her approaching. Her eyes narrow, but she offers, “Hello, Malfoy.”

Draco purses his lips. He doesn’t want to inquire after her fiancé or her family, so he asks, “Visiting Hogwarts?”

“Neville, actually. He said you’re helping him with the plants.” Her tone drips with displeasure.

“Sometimes, when I’m not busy.”

“Yes, you’re doing research. Hermione told me.”

“Ah.” Which means Potter and company have discussed him. He wonders if Neville was party to the conversation. He spends an irksome amount of time wondering how Neville sees him.

“You get on, then? With Neville?”

Draco draws himself up, his lip curling. “In a professional capacity.”

“Good."

The silence is fraught. “The, uh, Harpies not doing well?”

She shrugs. “Decent showing, but we lost a couple strong players, so it’ll take us a bit.”

“Mm. Best of luck.”

The wrinkle in her brow smooths by a fraction. “Thanks. You too, Malfoy.”

With a tight nod, he retreats to his office.

 

*

 

When he peeks outside the study the next day, the three friends are gathered. They chat and giggle, gardening forgotten. Weasley cracks a joke that leaves Neville in stitches. Lovegood smiles from her outstretched position in the grass. Draco feels a stab of envy, then loathes himself for being pathetic. He returns to his book.

But after a short while, he gives in to his baser instincts and cracks the window. With a simple charm, he can hear the conversation even as he returns to his desk. Lovegood is silent; perhaps she’s gone.

Weasley’s talking. “It’s secret. Must be important, because I took them to a bar and got them plastered and they still wouldn’t breathe a word. So I said you were much better company. I think Ron was more offended than Harry.”

Neville laughs. “Blimey. I hope it’s not a dangerous assignment.”

“What? You don’t miss it?”

He snorts. “Training was hellish enough. I admire Harry and Ron, but I’m happy here.”

“Are you?”

There’s a pause. “It gets lonely, but I make do. I see my parents on Sundays and then Gran and I lunch. I have holidays to visit you all.”

“Is that why you let Draco help you?” Draco starts, ripping the page he’s thumbing. “You can talk to someone young enough to know the Weird Sisters and old enough to grab a pint?”

“I don’t think he’d grab a pint with me, at least not in public. He looked like a caged dragon at breakfast. Though I imagine he has good reason to.”

“Neville, I know you’re wonderful and forgiving, but you’re ignoring _why_ everyone hates him. I mean, he’s still an arrogant son of a—”

“ _Ginny._ He’s repented. He’s even spent time with Muggles. And he apologized to me.”

“For being a smarmy prat? For bullying you for years? For letting us be tortured? For being a Death Eater? ‘Sorry, Neville, for joining up with the Dark Lord to kill you all.’” It stings, but she has a point.

“Stop it. He was acquitted. We’ve all held onto our grudges for long enough.”

“I’m not saying to put him on trial again. But it’s suspicious, Neville. Maybe he’s acting chummy with you for, I don’t know, good press. You have no reason to trust him.” Draco grits his teeth. As if being in the press is something he’s ever asked for.

“I’m the one who invited him to the gardens.”

“And he took you up! Don’t you find that strange?”

“Drop it. Please.”

“I’m worried for you, Neville. The way you’ve been talking about him…”

Neville clears his throat. “I know. But he’s not a threat, and even if he turned out to be one, I can handle myself.”

Another pause. “I trust you, then, but be careful. Anyway, I have presents to deliver in my things.”

“For me?”

“Who else? Hermione’s must be a book. And Mum sent peanut butter fudge. I can’t imagine what George got you, but open with caution.”

Neville chuckles. “How’s your family?”

“Well, Charlie had a run-in with an Antipodean Opaleye. Nothing new. Oh, and Fleur had a successful delivery…”

He doesn’t give a Knut about the Weasleys, so he closes the window again with great care. Neville’s defense has unfurled a tiny blossom of hope, but Draco tries to squash it. Ginny’s right, and it’s a matter of time until Neville sees that.

 

*

 

Even after Neville’s guests leave, Draco retreats from the gardens. If he needed a wake-up call, this is it. There are plenty of students to harvest in his place. Plus, he needs to write something insightful about the history of invisibility magic.

Progress is slow, though. The first rays of sunset splash yellows and oranges across the library. Another day wasted. He decides to have a smoke out on the Quad and makes his way to the nearest stairwell.

Halfway down, someone kicks his foot out from under him. Unprepared, he careens backwards. His back hits a sharp marble edge with a painful _thump,_ and he slides down a few stairs. His ankle twists painfully. Draco lies there for a minute, winded and bruised.

Footsteps clatter his way.

“Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Malfoy!”

“Are you okay?”

“He’s not hurt, is he?”

He sits up, wincing. He tries casting a wandless _Episkey,_ but to no avail. A group of students surrounds him, eyes wide. None of them are old enough to be trusted with a healing spell. He grits his teeth and replies, “Did you see anyone go past me?”

They all glance at each other before shaking their heads. A boy pipes up. “No, sir.”

“Never mind. I’m fine, just hurt my foot.” He fixes his eyes on the boy who spoke. He’s tall enough. “What’s your name?”

“Jeongwoo.”

“Can you assist me to the infirmary? The rest of you can go.”

Jeongwoo helps Draco limp up the stairs and down the hall. The boy helps him into the hospital wing and onto a bed, where he’s deposited into Madam Pomfrey’s care. She tuts at him. “What have you done?”

He shrugs. “I fell.”

She mends his ankle and back with such ease that it’s humiliating. He’s tucking his button-down back into his slacks when Neville bursts through the door, looking tense. “Draco!”

Perfect. “How’d you know I was here?”

“I overheard some students. You fell?”

“Missed a step, that’s all.”

Neville’s brow furrows. “They said someone tripped you.”

“Rumors.” He gestures to the door. “I can leave if you step aside.”

Neville does, but follows him down the empty corridor. “Is anyone harassing you?”

“Someone is always harassing me. You’re harassing me right now.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So? It’s normal.”

“It’s not normal!” Neville yanks at his sleeve, forcing Draco to whip around. “You can’t accept it. Somebody could hurt you. Do you understand that?”

“And?” snaps Draco. “Maybe I deserve it. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a villain and a smarmy prat.”

Neville blanches. “You were listening. I knew someone was listening.”

“Yes. I’ve never pretended to be moral, have I? Weasley’s right. You’re too kind for your own good, and it makes you a bloody easy target.” He tugs his sleeve out of Neville’s grip.

Neville glares at him. “Does it? And what about you? Acting a martyr isn’t going to make amends for anything you’ve done.”

“I’m not a fucking martyr.”

“Really? Because everything you’re saying sounds like self-pity to me.” Draco gapes at him. He underestimated Neville. “You think you’ll be forgiven if you let every angry wizard in the country shove you around?”

“I’m not letting it happen on purpose, am I? But this is my life. I don’t have a choice except to deal with it!” Draco jumps when someone’s shoes squeak against the tiles, but nobody turns the corner.

Neville exhales and lowers his voice. “I know. But warning me off won’t fix anything. You’re no villain, Draco.”

Draco swallows and replies in a tight voice, “And you’re not a damn hero, so don’t feel obligated to come to my rescue.”

“I’m not trying to _rescue_ you. I’m concerned.”

Draco lacks a rejoinder for that. “Fine. I don’t know who tripped me, so there’s nothing to be done. But I already plan to be vigilant.”

Neville searches Draco’s eyes. “Okay.” His posture relaxes, his face illuminated by the setting sun. It’s like a portrait. “I should leave for dinner.”

“You should. By the way, there’s a leaf in your hair.”

His search is fruitless. “Gone?”

“Let me.” Neville leans forward, and Draco plucks the leaf out and drops it to the ground.

“Thanks. You’re coming back to the garden, right?”

Draco nods and makes a shooing gesture. “Go already.”

With a reluctant expression, Neville departs. Draco waits until he can no longer hear the fading footsteps, then releases a breath.


	5. lily of the valley // trust

He’s torn on returning to the garden, but he promised, so he goes. It’s not like he was sleeping. Neville seems pleased, directing Draco towards the potatoes.

When they’ve finished, Neville hands him a folded-up piece of parchment. “The research lab that owns the _Lumonium astridae_ owled. They want a potioneering team to test for possible uses. I still need to establish a supply, but I thought you—I mean, Mrs. Bernard—might be interested.”

“Ms. Bernard,” he corrects. “You want to collaborate?”

“No, I wouldn’t be involved in the process, though I’d get credit for growing it. I’ll be publishing my own paper.” He pauses. “If you don’t want to…”

“No, it’s—I would have to ask Maxine.”

“The details are all there.”

“Right.” Draco tucks it into his pocket. “Are you sure?”

Neville smiles. “I read your papers, and Maxine’s too. I want to recommend someone I trust.” He clears his throat. “To handle it well.”

“Ah. Thank you.” It’s no small compliment. He’s seen how exacting Neville is in his greenhouses and gardens. He’s an incredible and dedicated Herbologist. “I’ll let you know soon.”

“Take your time.”

“Alright. Bye, then.” Draco summons his gloves and hurriedly exits. He doesn’t want to think about what Neville’s smile did to his stomach.

 

*

 

Maxine doesn’t do anything by halves, so she replies to meet her at the Leaky Cauldron on Sunday. He’s surprised that she has time with the forthcoming Macedonia conference. He also hates that she’s chosen such a public venue, but complaining would be futile.

Neville also goes to London on Sundays, but Draco doesn’t mention their coinciding plans. He’s not sure that Neville wants company, but Neville would be kind and offer to travel together. Instead he takes a mid-morning train by himself.

The Leaky Cauldron is bustling, though he doesn’t recognize anyone else besides Maxine. She’s already at a booth, dark braids coiled on top of her head. She’s not young, as proved by the lines on her ebony skin, but her high cheekbones and intelligent eyes make her striking. As usual, she’s unbothered by the stares of the other patrons.

He slides into his seat. “How are you?”

She grins. “Unprepared for the English food. What is this pork pie? No, I do not want to know. Your order is ready?” She gestures for the waiter, who seems intrigued by her French accent. “The spinach quiche and a café au lait.”

“Fish and chips, and a black coffee.”

She leans forward, all business as usual. “I have looked over the proposal. This _Lumonium astridae_ intrigues me. The variation in magical properties is very interesting. The potential for something undiscovered is high.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“No. I came to London to tell you this.”

His heart sinks. He hadn’t planned to return with bad news. “Oh.”

“Because _you_ will do it.”

How could he forget her flair for the dramatic? “But—”

“Of course, you are still my apprentice, but you will run this project on your own.”

He gawks at her.

“By the time this begins, your book will be in publication. You have done great work on the invisibility potion, but from here on, it is less interesting, no? To keep you there too long will be a waste of your talents!” She clangs her fork on the table. The waiter, who is placing their coffees down, nearly spills one on himself. “This will be a good chance for you. How long can you be my apprentice? We will make you a potions master _par excellence._ ”

“Maxine, I can’t thank you enough.”

“I disagree. Once is plenty. Also you must thank your friend, for presenting you with such a gift.”

Draco frowns. “We’re not friends.”

“I forget, you are a lone wolf. You travel at night. You hunt rabbits.” Her eyes sparkle. “Still you have charmed him.”

He’s about to protest when he hears a voice behind him. “Draco?”

To his horror and Maxine’s impending delight, it’s Neville. His grandmother stands behind him, appraising them from under her flowery hat. They must have come from St. Mungo’s. Draco manages to extricate himself from the booth under her withering gaze. “Neville. This is Ms. Bernard, my boss. Maxine, this is Professor Longbottom, who I was telling you about, and his grandmother, Mrs. Longbottom.”

His grandmother extends a hand, and Draco shakes it, hoping his palm isn’t sweaty. “Augusta will do, Mr. Malfoy.”

Maxine claps her hands together. “But what a fortunate coincidence! We have just ordered. You must join us for lunch.”

Draco tries to warn her with his eyes. Linking Neville to him publicly will bring intrusion into their lives. But Neville turns towards Augusta, who nods and replies, “Very well.”

They cram into the booth and exchange proper introductions while the Longbottoms scan the menu. A beer and steak and ale pie for Neville, a vodka tonic and tomato bisque for Augusta.

Draco has moved next to Maxine. Her presence helps him retain his manners; she delivers the good news to Neville, whose proud smile sends an embarrassed flush searing across Draco’s cheeks, and steers the conversation towards work. He even manages to recount a couple funny stories from their travels. Augusta’s imposing demeanor doesn’t fade, but she occasionally asks questions.

A fleck of potato falls out of Neville’s mouth. Draco signals to him while finishing the story. “Then he rocketed into the air and landed on the edge of the temple roof, and the authorities had to chase him via broomstick.”

Neville wipes his chin with a napkin. “You’re kidding. In front of the Muggle tourists?”

Maxine laughs. “I thought I must be dreaming!”

“Or,” Draco says, “you’d pulled a Lockhart and Obliviated yourself.” He catches the possible rudeness too late, but Augusta’s expression remains unchanged. He sips the last of his coffee to settle his nerves.

Maxine signals to the waiter. “I insist that this goes on my tab. It has been such a pleasure to meet you myself. I am sure that we can rely on you, Professor.”

“I’m happy this worked out,” Neville replies. “You’re wonderful. I see why Draco speaks so highly of you.”

“Does he?” There’s a gleam in her eye. “It is mutual, then. My apprentices all say ‘yes, yes’ to me. Only he wants to argue. But now I miss that.” Draco scoffs, but she talks over him as she stands. “I must take my leave now. I have a friend to meet. Goodbye, Draco.”

“Goodbye, Maxine.” They shake hands, but the impulse to offer a hug catches him by surprise. He missed her, but he can tell from her expression that she already knows.

Augusta follows suit. “I, too, have a social engagement. It has been nice to meet you both.” She turns to Neville. “Take care, and don’t forget to owl me about the repairs.”

“Yes, Gran.” He kisses her cheek before turning to Draco. “Back to Hogwarts? If we hurry, we can catch the 3:00.”

Both women Apparate away. The crowds of Diagon Alley are thinning, and Draco tries not to stand too close to Neville, hoping to avoid press attention. They hardly speak in the rush until they’re in a compartment, hurtling back towards Hogwarts. Trees topped with vibrant oranges and reds whiz by as they pass fields and forests.

Draco clears his throat. “How was your visit?”

He knows what Neville’s real smiles are. This one doesn’t reach his eyes. “The usual. They’re not very responsive, but I think it does them good to have me talk to them.”

Draco replies softly, “I’m sure they’re happy to see you. It may be my own experience, but there’s nothing stronger than a parent’s love.”

Neville swallows, directing his gaze out the window. His voice is thick. “Thank you."  
  
Fumbling for words, he tries to change the subject. “I’m nervous about the impression I made on your grandmother."

Neville turns back, mirth returned to his eyes. “I’ve felt that every day for my whole life.” Draco can’t hold back a snort. “I’m serious! I think she liked you. There’s, uh, no love lost between our families, but Gran’s not the sort to hold it against you.”

“She must have raised you that way.”

“I suppose. She likes most of my mates. Except Seamus, who once knocked on her front door at 4 in the morning piss-drunk and crying about a breakup. I wasn’t even home.”

Draco fails to hide the confusion in his voice. “Are we mates?”

Neville blinks at him. “Aren’t we?"

“Why? It’ll bring you trouble. Weasley made that clear.”

Neville shrugs. “It's not like I planned to befriend you. It just sort of happened, right?"

Draco can’t contest that.

“Friends, then.” A yawn splits Neville’s smile. “Sorry, I’m knackered. Mind if I nap?”

“Be my guest.” Draco picks up his book, _Histories of Atlantis,_ and refuses to think about the flutter of Neville’s eyelashes as he drifts into slumber. The train rounds a bend and carries them further into the evening.

 

*

 

Draco dreads the fresh headline from their lunch, but the universe shows him some mercy. It’s on page 9 and reads, “Concocting Plans: Meeting of Prominent Researchers Indicates New Project.” Most of it is about their academic careers, with a brief mention of Augusta’s charity work. She must have used her connections to spin the story, or terrified the journalists at the _Prophet_ into submission.

He spends four straight days in his room, owling about the moonflowers and working with renewed vigor on his book. Seeing Maxine always sparks an intellectual fire in him. He barely sleeps. Still, the few hours he puts in are dreamless, a nice side effect of his exhaustion.

On the fourth day, he runs out of coffee. He opens his door to see Neville down the hall. “Draco. Where have you been?”

“Making some progress on my damn book.”

Neville stops in front of him and frowns. “You look tired.”

“I like to give off the air of the weary academic.” He flourishes a hand for effect, but Neville’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m about to restock on coffee.”

“What you need is rest."

“I don’t recall asking you to impersonate my mother.”

Neville’s lips quirk at that. “Really, Draco. At least come over and take a break. I’ll brew you a cup.”

An impasse, then; he can see the stubbornness in Neville’s gaze, so he replies, “If it’s not any trouble.”

His room is spacious. Small planters line the windowsills and pots hang from the ceiling. There’s no office, but there’s a queen bed, some large bookshelves, a plush armchair, and nicest of all, a full kitchen. It’s untidy, with stuffed drawers and papers spilling across most surfaces, but it suits him. Neville starts digging in his cabinets. “Give me a second to find it.”

Draco wanders over to the bookshelf. “Hm…ooh, _Erotic Fantasies for the Charming Wizard_. I knew I’d find something scandalous.”

Neville splutters, “Th-that was a gag gift! From Dean. It’s school photos from our last year. After the war, that is.”

Draco opens it to a group photo: the fifty-odd students from their class who had returned to complete their studies. Few of them are in Slytherin green, but he spies Gregory, Pansy, Blaise, and Millicent in a clump. The pang of longing catches him off guard. He doubts he would have survived the year, let alone enjoyed it. Still, he wishes he’d been able to restore his friendships before they graduated and split up. He shuts the book and tucks it back into place.

Neville sets a steaming mug down on the table. “Welcome.”

Draco takes his seat. “Nice that you have a proper kitchen.”

“Wasted on me, I’m afraid. I’d offer to make dinner, but I can’t cook for my life. Not that Gran was much of a teacher. I know there’s an expression on burning water, but I swear, she’s done worse things.”

The coffee is black and strong, and Draco relishes the sip before chuckling. “I envy you. I used to cook quite often.”

“Do you want to have a go, then? I’m afraid I haven’t many ingredients, but we could send requests to the house elves.”

He should leave, but it’s been too long since he ate something that wasn’t frightfully English. “I could make something simple. Get me parchment and a quill.” He scribbles down a list, and soon he’s chopping vegetables at the counter and pouring sesame oil into a pan.

Neville watches him, munching on a carrot slice. “When’d you learn?”

He throws shrimp onto the pan and it sizzles. “Abroad, from cookbooks and Muggle TV. Mum’s never touched a knife.” He pauses. “At least, not for cooking purposes.”

Neville ignores this. “Bet that made you popular with the ladies, cooking them dinner.”

“I wasn’t very social, and most of my company…” He pours the sauce over the boiled noodles. “Didn’t stick around for breakfast.” When he glances over, Neville looks embarrassed. Draco can’t tell if he’s virginal or prudish, but either way, the topic is best changed. He picks up the two plates and sets them on the table. “Nothing elaborate. Pad thai.”

Neville digs in, then lets out a groan of pleasure that sends heat to Draco’s cheeks. He has no self-awareness, does he? But it’s nice to have someone enjoy his food for once, and he relishes his own excellent taste. It’s been too long. Plus he’s not faced with his usual tough crowd, but with Neville’s wide smiles and crinkling eyes.

They chat about the garden. Then Draco recounts the responses he got when he was first published as a researcher. “A Venus flytrap from Blaise. Pansy, the bitch, sent me newspapers and tabloids about my redemption.”

Neville grins. “I’m sure you were thrilled.”

“Better than Granger. Her reply included a copy of my paper filled with grammatical corrections.”

Neville snickers at that, then fishes his wand out to set the sponge and soap to work on the dishes. “Thank you. I can’t remember the last time I ate like that.”

Draco rubs the back of his neck. “You’re welcome. But you should learn to cook.” He stands. “I’ll see you, then.”

“Wait, Draco.” Neville reaches out to brush his shoulder and Draco stills, a thrill running up his spine. “It’s Hallowe’en tomorrow. Are you coming to the feast? The professors are having a party after, and I can bring you to have a drink there.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Why not?” Morgana’s third tit, he’s gearing up for a speech, isn’t he? “The students are curious, sure, but nobody has it out for you.” Draco arches an eyebrow. “Or at least not as many as you believe. Aren’t you trying to be respected again? You shouldn’t have to hide in the library. You’re part of the Hogwarts family, and you deserve it after working so hard.”

He remains skeptical, but a small part of him agrees. A much larger part reminds him that a flask of Firewhisky should get him through. “If you promise to never deliver another speech to me again, I’ll go.”

Neville goes crimson around the ears, but he looks victorious nonetheless. “See you tomorrow.”

Draco closes the door behind him and then rubs at his temples. He knows he’s going to regret this.

 

*

 

And he's not wrong.

It’s the same feast from his boyhood memories, golden candles and orange streamers hanging under a star-studded ceiling. A swarm of live bats weaves among the jack o’ lanterns. Black cauldrons spill over with caramels or lollipops. The House Ghosts repeat the same piss-poor jokes every year, but they’re drowned out by the chatter.

There’s no room at the professor’s table. While Neville is up there, Draco has been relegated to the far end of the Slytherin table. The other Slytherin guests are two parents who prattle on about how _bright_ their daughter is, a retired professor with an abysmal trumpet-like hearing aid, and a bored young woman who forgoes speaking to lick her way around a candy apple. At least she’s thorough.

So Draco breaks out his flask and downs spiked Butterbeers like a fish. He’s past tipsy by the time the feast is over. As they leave, he tells the parents that he’s tired of hearing about their pop-eyed, brainless little hag.

Neville’s expression, however, makes him feel a little guilty. He strides down the aisle, looking disapproving. Draco idly wonders if he’s earned a spanking.

Shit. He’s drunk.

Neville frowns down at him. “Entertained yourself, then?”

“Had to. They didn’t provide any bloody entertainment worth watching.”

“You’re not fit for the afterparty.”

“Nonsense. It’s my society debut, isn’t it? I have to make a good impression.” He gestures to his mauve dress robes, the only remotely colorful thing in his wardrobe. “Impressed?”

Neville swallows and says unconvincingly, “You won’t charm anyone in this state.”

“I take that as an insult. I would hex you, but I appear to have misplaced my wand.” He giggles at his own wit.

Neville sighs. “Come on. Off to bed.”

“I cordially refuse.” Draco weaves his way over towards the entrance and trails the ghosts and the professors upstairs. Neville has no choice but to follow.

The room is packed. The staff have gathered in small groups, passing around tumblers of Firewhisky. He’s tempted to have more, but he’s stopped by a wrinkled hand gesturing his way. It’s McGonagall.

“Nice to see that you joined the feast, Draco.” McGonagall looks very stern indeed, but there’s an unmistakable twinkle in her eye.

“A pleasure. The company was fascinating.”

“Yes, I spoke to the Gardiners. It seems you were less than taken with their daughter, Julie.” Neville looks horrified, which is amusing.

“ _Au contraire._ If she is as marvelous as they say, I would be delighted to be introduced. I would do it myself if I had the faintest inkling of which one she is.”

“Careful how you judge. One day you will bring your wife and child here, and I will be hearing your effusive praise.”

“Mmm, perhaps.” He leans in. “If I decide to take a wife and forego a husband.”

McGonagall remains implacable. “I see. Nevertheless, there are many future feasts. I suggest that you rest early tonight.”

“But the party is just starting!” The gilded sofa cushions entice him, and he seats himself. Or tips backwards onto the sofa. Close enough.

Neville seems to have come to his senses and grips Draco’s arm. “I’ll escort him, Headmistress.”

“Yes,” she replies, looking thoughtful. “Take care, gentlemen.”

Neville yanks him to his feet and drags him out the door, so Draco protests, “Unhand me, you lug! I have a debut to attend.” He’s ignored and speeds up to avoid falling over. His head swims. “Morgana, Neville! Are we running a damn race?”

Neville stops. “Sorry.” He seems discomposed, but he’s gentler as he leads Draco down the stairs and towards the library. Neville ignores his pouting as they arrive at Draco’s door. “Got your keys?”

“Heartless. Unconscionable.”

“Draco. Keys.”

“Don’t you try Alohomora, because I’ve set up a nice trap for you after the last surprise.” He throws Neville a challenging look.

“The last…? Oh, never mind. My room, then.” He pulls Draco over with him, fumbling until the lock clicks. After the door closes he releases Draco’s arm, leaving it red and stinging. “I’ll get you water.”

“Balderdash. You’re spoiling your own fun too, you know.” Draco grabs Neville by the shoulders, jerking him around. Whoops. He slips his arms around Neville’s neck, pulling him closer. “I’m sure you don’t get enough chances like this.”

Neville’s eyes widen, but the poor man doesn’t have time to react as Draco presses their lips together. Soft and sugary from the feast. He pulls him in, deepening the kiss. Neville starts to respond in kind, seizing his waist and groaning in a way that goes straight to Draco’s lower half. They spend a minute that way, pressed chest to chest, absorbed in each other’s warmth.

Then Draco pulls away and burps. Hell. Looking gratifyingly dazed, Neville turns him in the direction of the toilet and marches him over.


	6. red poppy // pleasure

Dragon bogies, is it morning? Draco’s head pounds and his mouth tastes sour. His eyes flutter open as he feels something touching his wrist. _The_ wrist. He snaps his head up to see a guilty-looking Neville unwrapping the black cloth that hides Draco’s Dark Mark.

He snatches his arm back, voice full of venom. “What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing?” He’s on Neville’s armchair, covered in a blanket, but he doesn’t have time to process how he arrived there. The hangover should explain it.

Neville pulls his hand back, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, Draco, I wasn’t thinking—”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s a common occurrence for you, but some of us put our brains to use.” Draco watches Neville recoil and regrets it. He just dug up years of long-buried hurt. He sits up, cradling his wrist.

He hates it more than anything. It won’t burn again, but the mark is seared into him, an echo that will haunt him for the rest of his life.

Neville hands him a flask of Hangover-B-Gone potion. Draco downs it; the aching dissipates and his mind clears. He gazes at Neville’s guilt-ridden face for a minute before tugging at the black fabric himself.

Neville protests, “There’s no need—”

“Quiet.” His voice is cold enough to extinguish Fiendfyre. “You wanted to see it, right? I’m showing you.” He holds his wrist out: a pale red outline of a skull atop a coiled snake, fainter than the war days.

Neville deflates, and that hurts more than any burning mark, as if he hadn’t known the whole time that it would be there. “You can cover it up.”

Draco shoots up from the armchair and spits out, “Finally remembered that you’ve been hobknobbing with a Death Eater? Shall I buy you a Remembrall, for old times’ sake?”

“Draco, that’s not—”

“I’ve already apologized to you, _Longbottom._ I won’t beg for anyone’s forgiveness. If I could change the past, I’d do it, but unfortunately, I have to spend my life with this reminder of what I’ve been.”

“That’s not it!” Neville looks distressed enough to shut Draco up. “I know that. I was being selfish. I thought that if I could remind myself, I wouldn’t do something stupid.”

“Something stupid?” Draco echoes.

Neville leans closer. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

Draco ponders this, and the memories come flooding back: getting smashed, outing himself to McGonagall, forcing a kiss onto Neville. Mortified, he steps back. “I – I’m sorry.”

Neville closes the gap again. He’s rumpled; this time he’s the one who hasn’t slept well. “I should be sorry for kissing you while you were drunk. But I want to know. Would anyone have done?”

“What?”

His face reddens. “I want to know if you kissed me because you like me. Because I’d like to kiss you. Sober.”

Draco gapes at him before swallowing down his finer feelings. Impossible. “That can’t happen. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Because you don’t want to?”

“Because I made enough mistakes last night.” He sidesteps Neville and makes his way to the bathroom to wash his face.

Neville leans in the doorway, sounding hopeful. “That’s not a yes.”

“Look,” Draco snaps, “if you want a casual fuck, fine by me. It’s been a bloody long time, too. But you can’t moon at me with your hero-eyes and expect me to keel over for you.” He wipes his face on the towel, then turns to face Neville. “Yes, I like men. Yes, you’re passably attractive. But I’m getting matched one day, so don’t get caught up in your own head.”

Neville looks stunned, which is good. He’s put the suave bastard in his place.

“And don’t you dare tell anyone that I’m not the straightest wizard in the damn country. I’ll have your head.” Draco pushes past Neville and punctuates the statement by slamming the door. Steadying his shaking hands, he strides to the office of the Headmistress.

 

*

McGonagall looks unsurprised. “Draco.”

“I owe you many apologies for my shameful conduct.” He bows his head.

She twirls her quill between her fingers. “Sit down.” He does. “You will oblige me by writing an apology to the Gardiners, but to be fair, I am not saying you were incorrect.”

Her sense of humor confounds him. “Of course.”

“My main concern is the other piece of news you chose to share with me. There are all kinds of students here, Draco, and I welcome any form that love takes. Considering our own Minister of Magic…well. But I do not believe that you wish this to be public knowledge.”

“No. I intend to be matched.”

“And this will hurt your prospects. Is there a reason to follow pureblood custom? Your family cannot impose upon you anymore.”

“It is my choice.” He takes a deep breath. “I want to bring joy to my parents, and a grandchild is my mother’s fondest wish.”

“Ah.” McGonagall places her quill down. Her eyes bore into his. “I will not betray your confidence, but I urge you to exercise more caution, then.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Outside her office, he sinks onto the polished flagstones and drops his face into his hands.

 

*

 

Two days later, there’s a tap on his door. He answers it to see a jittery Herbology professor holding a bouquet of hyacinths and orchids. “An apology. Can I come in? It won’t take long.”

“If you must.” He closes the door behind Neville, thoughts swirling. He’s spent these two days obsessing over what Neville said and his own mixed emotions, but it hasn’t produced any answers. “I don’t have a vase.”

“Easily solved.” Neville picks up a quill and Transfigures it into a feather-patterned vase. Right. Placing the flowers in it, Neville walks to the kitchenette and pours water inside, then mutters a charm to keep them healthy.

Draco didn’t let Neville inside for this. “Look, I was rude, but everything I said stands. Aside from the fact that you’re daft, I have plans for my future. You said it yourself. It would be stupid.”

Neville offers a nervous half-smile. “I’m not proposing.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“I don’t think I could manage…sex friends.” Merlin, he’s so vanilla that his ears go red. “I want to ask you on a proper date.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Neville perches on the window seat. “You have a few months left here. I like you, you like me, and we’re marooned in a sea of children.”

Draco crosses his arms. “I didn’t say that.”

“I know. You called me passably attractive.” His roguish smile makes Draco’s heart skip a beat. “But if you didn’t, you would have told me already. And thrown in some choice insults.”

Draco’s flush spreads to his chest. “I don’t believe you’ve thought this through.”

“Maybe you’re thinking too much.”

“If the papers found out, it would haunt us for life.”

“So we keep it secret. Easy at Hogwarts with no press.” He sounds so reasonable that he’s skewing Draco’s words. But Draco remains silent, staring at the wall, until Neville replies in a disheartened tone, “Unless I’ve judged this wrong.”

Draco relents. “Friday night. You take care of the arrangements. Now out. I have work to do.”

Neville _beams,_ which gives Draco chills. He might regret this. “Eight o’clock.” Then he’s gone.

Draco sits at his desk, folds his arms, and buries his face in them. He remains like that until he hears a clattering noise in the hallway, but it’s just Peeves graffitiing the words _DRACO THE DUNGBOMB_ on the wall _._   

         

*

 

Eight sharp. He’s worn thicker robes, warmer gloves, and enchanted earmuffs in case this is a plan to portkey him to Siberia for vengeance.

A rap on the window startles him out of this reverie. It’s a ragged little owl carrying a note. _Meet me in the greenhouse that my office is in. – Neville_

Draco sighs. Does Neville care about his nerves? If anyone overheard them, they could fake a note to bait him into a trap. He pictures Madam Hooch feeding him to the giant squid.

Despite these inner protests, he treks out into the cold. It’s empty except for a Prefect on duty, who strolls by with a curious glance. The night is inky black, the silence punctuated by the distant chatter of students going to and from Hogsmeade. His breath leaves his mouth in wispy puffs.

Cracking the door of the greenhouse, he’s hit by a wave of heat. It’s still dark in here, but the ceiling has been enchanted to make the sky cloudless and the stars brighter. “Neville?”

“Here.” Neville pops up from behind the bags of dried Fluxweed. He’s wearing a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, which is a welcome change.

“Next time, pick me up. I’d like to know that no one’s using your name to lure me somewhere.”

“Sorry.” Neville’s brow creases. “I didn’t think of that.”

“It’s fine.” He deposits his robes, earmuffs, and gloves in Neville’s arms. “We’re not going to garden, are we?”

Neville grins. “I’m more romantic than that.” He leads the way to a space that’s been cleared in the back. A small table has been laid out with food. Floating candles bob overhead. Crystal wineglasses sparkle in the light. “Do you like Italian?”

“If it was made by the house-elves. Not that I wouldn’t appreciate the thought.”

“I would have tried, but I like to save violent stomach poisoning for the third date.” Neville serves out creamy pasta with chicken and sundried tomatoes.

Draco cracks a smile as he takes a seat. Neville relaxes, and Draco realizes that Neville had been waiting for a reaction. Maybe he should be friendlier. “How was class?”

“Rough day. The Fanged Geranium nipped a sixth year. Nothing messy, but the parents raised a stink.”

“Let me guess: it was the student’s fault.”

“Maybe, but I’m also responsible. I’m not great at disciplining my classes.”

“I’m sure they love you for it when they’re not being mauled by flowers.”

Neville laughs. “Fair point.” He seats himself opposite. Anxiety pumps into Draco’s veins. He’s spent a lifetime being drilled on polite small talk, but tonight he’s trying to be authentic. “Draco?”

“What? Sorry. Are you, uh, following Quidditch?”

“Of course. Puddlemere, and Gran would disown me if I betrayed. You?”

“Magpies. Did you see Smith-Willington’s goal?”

“Brilliant. I thought she’d fall off her broom.”

They discuss Quidditch for a while, Draco taking delicate bites while Neville plows through the food. He’s concerningly handsome in this light, which must be the work of a glamor or love potion in the curry, since he’s always been average in the looks department.

Neville shakes his head. “I prefer to have both feet on the ground. Used to watch you as Seeker, though, and wonder how you did it. You could turn on a hairpin.”

Draco grins. “I wasn’t the Boy Who Flew, but I held my own. I miss it.”

“Were you at the last game? I didn’t see you.”

“No.” He punctures a tomato with his fork. “I’m afraid that I’m not welcome while Madam Hooch is there. Can’t say I blame her.”

Neville grimaces and reaches out to intertwine Draco’s left hand in his right. He has gardener’s hands, broad fingers and a calloused palm. Draco’s hand looks pale and fragile in comparison, the Malfoy signet ring gleaming. “Come as my guest.”

“You’ve vouched for me enough.”

“I’d do it again to see you swear a blue streak at the players.”

Draco snorts. “You’d better get us in the professors’ box. I’ve been so careful with my language.”

“Trying to give out a good impression?”

Draco feigns casual as he replies, “It worked on you, didn’t it?”

Neville shrugs. “I think it would have worked either way.” He sips his wine, and when he lowers the glass, a drop beads on his mouth. Draco reaches out to wipe it away, then catches himself and freezes. Neville only locks eyes with him, waiting, so he swipes his thumb over Neville’s bottom lip. He can almost hear their heartbeats.

He pulls his hand back and scrambles for words. “What was seventh year like? The second time around.”

Neville blinks back to reality. “Uh. Chaotic, since Hogwarts was collapsed around us. Free time meant rebuilding the castle while the teachers restored the magical protections. In the meantime, they filled the place with Aurors. That’s how I got recruited for Auror training.”

“Where were classes?”

“Wherever we found space. Sometimes the Great Hall or the Quidditch field. We all dormed together since the common rooms were mostly gone. There weren’t many electives, so we spent most of the year cramming for N.E.W.T.s as a group.”

“With the Slytherins, too?”

“No. Things were tense. We separated to avoid fighting.” Neville sighs. “Looking back, I wish we’d tried. Maybe it would be easier to bridge the rifts now.”

Neville’s empathy is ridiculous. It’s impossible for anyone to be this forgiving. Their fingers are still laced together, so Draco squeezes Neville’s hand. “I doubt anyone who saw you now would complain that you’re not fair to Slytherins.”

Neville’s brow furrows. “You don’t think I’m doing this because…”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Coward that he is, he must have a little bravery stored up somewhere. “You’re generous. Even now, I can’t believe that you’ve been so…kind to me.”

Neville blushes. “Maybe it’s a seduction technique."

Draco smirks in reply. “At least say it with conviction.”

They chat easily after that, from research to Ministry news to favorite literature. He doesn’t want to allow himself to think beyond this moment; it’s a fleeting detour, and candlelit dinner can’t make him forget practicality and family duty. But it’s nice.

When they stand to leave, Draco leans in, placing a hand on Neville’s shoulder to steady himself, and closes the space between their mouths. It’s a lazy kiss, soft and slow, and when they separate Neville looks closer to tipsy than he had been. Draco, too, feels intoxicated, though he hasn’t even finished a second glass of wine. They kiss again, hungrier, and only the recollection that this is a first date makes Draco unwind himself. “Save it for next time?”

Neville’s delight is obvious, but he merely takes Draco’s hand in his again. “I can manage that.”

 

*

 

He still spends most of his weekend buried in parchment and inhaling coffee, but now he has an outing to look forward to. Neville invites Draco to the Hufflepuff-Slytherin match. The second date is less romantic, since they’re in full view of the public. At least the press is strictly prohibited from sneaking in.

McGonagall gives them her usual deadpan nod. Madam Hooch either doesn’t notice him or chooses to ignore him, a relief either way. It’s drizzling and the cold rain stings when it hits his skin; it’s a good excuse to keep his face obscured by his hood and scooch closer to Neville under the umbrella.

True to form, Draco keeps up a running stream of taunts and insults, muttering them for Neville’s benefit. The Slytherins are quite good, but their Bludger-brained Seeker misses the Snitch by inches for a narrow loss. Still, he forgot how exhilarating it was to witness Quidditch in person, the players arcing and swooping like swallows against the gray drizzle.

Afterwards, they go back to Neville’s room and spend a half hour thawing their hands and snogging on his armchair.

“I’m acting more like a teenager than I did during school.”

Neville pours out two mugs of hot cocoa. His lips are still swollen. “Kissing professors?”

Draco flips him off. “Sneaking around to suck face after a Quidditch match.”

“You have the soul of a poet.” Neville passes a mug and joins him at the table. “Didn’t get much action?”

“I was sneaking around, but to…well. You remember.” His grip tightens on the handle. “Even if I had time to spare, calling people ‘blood traitors’ narrows the pool of options.”

“I imagine so,” Neville murmurs, looking unsure of how to proceed. “Things went better abroad, though?”

“In a manner of speaking. It wasn’t romantic. Mostly one-nighters with Muggles.”

“Really?” Neville nearly spills his drink. “Muggles? I mean, I know you worked for them, but I didn’t think you’d…”

“It was convenient. They don’t know my reputation, and they certainly won’t report back to the pureblood world that I shag blokes.”

“Oh. Right.”

Draco’s not sure how to interpret Neville’s frown.  Instead he sips the cocoa. Too sweet, but that’s to be expected. “What about you?”

Neville shrugs. “Before the war, I didn’t have the confidence to ask anyone out. I dated a couple girls during the last year and then Auror training, but it was brief.”

“And then?”

“After coming here, things haven’t worked out.”

“Does that mean I’m the first man you’ve…?”

“Yeah. Figured it out with bad timing.” Neville scratches his neck. “Does that bother you?”

“Seems like a bad boy thing. A man, a Slytherin, a former Death Eater, the Malfoy heir…”

“You already know that Gran doesn’t care. At least, not about your gender. And that would require me to inform her about us.”

Draco’s eyes widen. “Right. Nix that plan.”

Neville grins. “She’s not so bad.”

“That’s true. If I had to face down a herd of centaurs or your grandmother, I’d take Augusta. Maybe.” Neville flicks his forehead in retaliation. Draco feigns offense and marches over to the couch, where he digs in his bag and retrieves his book. “Mind if I work here?”

Neville tosses him a blanket. “Go ahead. I have papers to grade.”

They end up curled up on the couch, Draco buried in another dreary biography while Neville scribbles red circles across his stack of parchment. Rain splashes heavy against the window panes and the taste of cocoa lingers in his mouth. Draco leans on Neville’s warm shoulder and wonders, perhaps for the millionth time this week, if he deserves to feel this content.


	7. coriander // lust

A fresh nightmare interrupts the idyll. Neville, glinting sword aloft in his arms, turns in horror at Draco’s pointed wand _._ He feels himself casting the Killing Curse, the magic wending its way through the frosty air. Neville’s body collapses on the stone tiles as the green light hits his chest, lifeless eyes staring into the void.

Draco wrenches himself awake, tears leaking from his eyes. He knows this dream is here to stay.

*

Draco arrives early the next morning without his gloves or gardening clothes. He doesn’t want to lie, especially knowing how easy it’ll be, how trusting Neville is. But he can’t get too invested. In fact, he should end it now, but Draco’s always lacked strength of will in the face of temptation.

And blast it, Neville is tempting.

Neville grins, setting down his pruning shears, and Draco’s heart leaps into his throat. “Not joining me?”

Draco shakes his head, bracing himself. “I don’t think I’ll be gardening anymore. My book is entering the writing stage. You’ll have to compete for my waking hours with _A Comprehensive History of Invisibility Magic_.” It’s not entirely fabricated, at least.

Neville looks like a kicked puppy, but smiles anyway. “That’s okay. Decided on the title?”

“My publisher wasn’t fond of _A Genius’s Guide to Invisibility Magic_.”

“Shame.” Neville leans down, and Draco obliges him with a quick kiss. “Back to work then?”

“Apologize to the plants for me.”

“I will, you know.”

“I do. It makes me question every decision that led me here.”

Neville’s laugh is a spark that bounces off the greenhouse walls. Draco carries it with him through the day to ward off the guilt.

 

*

 

That night, the sliver of a moon ascends over the tree line. They’re sitting at Neville’s kitchen table, slogging through their respective piles of parchment.

Draco can’t concentrate, however, still antsy from the morning. He contents himself with watching Neville: the flutter of his eyelashes, the trace of stubble on his jaw, the slope of his broad shoulders. A prickle of lust crawls across his skin.

Neville looks up, a rosy color spreading across his cheeks. “Enjoying the view?”

Draco returns a lascivious smirk. “I am.”

Blush deepening, Neville replies, “I wouldn’t mind a break.”

Draco pauses. “We’re on the same page, aren’t we?”

Neville rubs at his chin, looking puzzled. “I think so?”

With remarkable speed, Draco straddles Neville in his wooden chair, hooking his fingers under the jumper to brush Neville’s collarbone. “I’m hoping this is what you had in mind.”

“Y-yes. That.” Neville’s mouth is already hanging open, and Draco grinds down just for the satisfaction of hearing him groan. He begins to suck kisses along Neville’s neck, biting hickeys with abandon. Neville can spell them off later.

As if roaring to life, Neville begins to fumble with Draco’s buttons, tugging some off with vehemence. Draco would protest at the mistreatment of an expensive shirt, but his mouth is occupied. Neville slips it off Draco’s shoulders. Then he shifts so he’s the one kissing the hollow of Draco’s throat, hands roaming across his back. Draco can’t restrain a gasp.

When Neville’s hands reach Draco’s waistband and tug at his fly, he breathes out, “Wait.” Neville pulls back, trepidation evident, and Draco reassures him with a kiss. “How much do you know about what comes next?”

“Just the theory?” Neville’s voice comes out strangled, and he clears his throat, running his hands along Draco’s waist. “I figured you could teach me.”

“Student-teacher roleplay? Not very original.” Neville snorts, but Draco’s humor is getting in the way of his seduction. He leans in for a filthy kiss, tongues wrestling, and then parts so he can tug Neville’s jumper over his head. It’s a promise; he makes to stand so he can lead Neville to the bedroom and deliver it. Instead, Neville maneuvers Draco in his lap to get a firm hold and lifts him up by his thighs.

In response to Draco’s arched eyebrows, Neville stammers, “You, uh, don’t mind this, do you?”

“Let’s make this clear now.” Suspended in the air, Draco kisses him again, his gray eyes stormy. “I _really_ like it.”

That’s all the prompting Neville needs. Which isn’t strictly true; Draco smooths the process with instruction and encouragement, but Neville is an eager pupil with a hungry mouth and a big…well. Heart, let’s say. They spend too much time laughing and kissing, and he’s charmed by how Neville handles him like he’s precious, doesn’t assume anything until Draco demands more.

Afterwards they lean back on a pile of pillows. There are scars on Neville’s chest, shoulder, thigh, but he doesn’t ask and Neville doesn’t ask about his. Instead, Neville runs a hand through Draco’s loose-flowing hair, the ribbon long disappeared in the clothes scattering the floor. “I can’t stop looking at it.”

Draco shifts his head, which is resting on Neville’s shoulder. “Understandable. My looks are most of my charm. Gaunt in the vein of the Malfoy clan, but if that’s your taste…”

“Well, your taste is average blokes with stomach rolls.”

Draco sits up and pinches Neville’s waist, earning a yelp. “You’re just fishing for me to say you’re handsome.” He clasps his hands together and bats his eyelids. “And you’re not just any bloke. You’re a _hero._ ”

“Sod off.”

“Neville, please, slay me with your sword of Gryffindor!”

Neville whacks him with a pillow. Draco considers leaving to make a point about the affront to his dignity, but he ends up staying until he falls asleep.

 

*

 

Neville writhes on the ground, an agonized scream ripped from his throat. A shadowed figure hunches over him, sharp teeth sunk into his bloody wound. It growls as the full moon climbs just above the towers of Hogwarts. Fenrir Greyback begins to transform, his body grotesquely pulsating, eyes glowing sharp yellow in the darkness.

Desperate, Draco tries to lunge forward, but his body is paralyzed in place. Cold hands seize his shoulders, and in his ear, a sibilating voice whispers, “Very good, my boy…”

 

*

 

Draco starts awake, breathing hard through his nose, and feels a weight pressed against him. He recoils in panic, only to hear a mumbled sound of annoyance. Right. He’s tucked in Neville’s bed. Bleary eyes blink open. “You alright?”

“Fine. Go back to bed.”

“Shhh.” An arm loops around him, pulling him closer. Draco lets himself be folded into Neville’s warmth, his galloping heartbeat slowing. “Nightmare?”

“Mmm.”

“About what?”

“Nothing.” Draco pauses. “The war.”

“Do they happen often?” Draco remains silent, and Neville smooths his hair back. “I see. I could talk about the garden? To calm you down?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t take Sleeping Draughts, right? How about a glass of water?”

“No, this is enough. Really.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Mmph.” Neville tucks Draco’s head under his chin. “Goodnight, then.” He’s out like a light. It takes Draco a while longer, but the tempo of Neville’s snores soothes him until his consciousness fizzles at the edges.

 

*

 

He wakes up long before dawn, but later than usual. Neville is passed out, a line of drool hitting the pillow, and Draco feels a scary rush of affection. He extricates himself.

Soon after, a very loud alarm sounds from the bedroom. “Draco?”

Draco pops his head in. He’s in boxers and a large Puddlemere United hoodie from Neville’s closet. The sleeves bunch up around his arms. “I made tea, scrambled eggs, and toast.”

“You’re an angel. Do this more often.”

“Wake you up in the dead of night?”

Neville grins. “If that’s the price of breakfast, I’m lucky.”

Draco seats himself on the edge of the bed. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. Anyway, I don’t have trouble falling back asleep. You saw it yourself.”

“That’s true. It made me hate you.”

“Enough to not bring me eggs?”

“I’m not your house elf. Get your lazy arse out of bed already. You have plants to check on.”

Neville obliges, pausing to kiss Draco on the cheek before scarfing down a meal fit for two.

 

*

 

The easy rhythm of day-to-day settles in as November passes by. Draco writes and writes, pressing quill to parchment from sunrise to sunset, and then goes to visit the Herbology professor next door. The guilt-washed horrors of his mind still interrupt each night, but it’s comforting to wake up wrapped into someone else. Draco reassures himself that this is why he’s adjusting so quickly.

Maybe life was too peaceful.

He’s on his way to the kitchens for lunch, students milling around the crowded corridor, when a jinx flies at him. He blocks before he can think, then whirls around with venomous eyes. “Who did it?”

He receives blank stares. A girl pipes up, “Did what, sir?”

“Stare all you like, but if one of you snots tries to jinx me again, I’ll have you expelled. Don’t test me.” He turns on his heel and stalks off, ignoring the furious chatter behind him.

Word reaches Neville, who mentions it after sex. “Next time, maybe you should tone it down.”

“You told me to defend myself.”

“I know. I’m just afraid that threatening students won’t help your reputation.”

“Do I care?”

Neville traces an indistinguishable shape onto Draco’s bony hipbone. It tickles, and Draco swats his hand away. “It won’t be long until these kids grow up and enter the workforce. You might want to make a better impression on them.”

“Fine. Any ideas how?”

“…Smile more?”

Draco vetoes this with an eyeroll.

 

*

 

A couple days later, there’s a loud knock on his door. When he calls out, “Come in,” two boys enter. They must be third or fourth-years. The Gryffindor is chubbier and wears a self-satisfied smirk, while the reedy little Ravenclaw seems nervous.

It’s the Gryffindor who says, “Mr. Malfoy. I have a question.”

“About?”

“Your position here, sir.”

He resigns himself and holds out a box of pencils. “I have one seat, so I hope one of you can Transfigure well enough.”

The Ravenclaw performs the spell well enough, just a wobbly leg, while the Gryffindor sneers. “That’s right. You don’t have a wand, do you?”

“I don’t. What are your names?”

“Bradley Fingerton.” He plops into the larger chair.

“Hussain Malik.” The Ravenclaw boy takes his seat, bouncing a leg and looking jittery. Between his glasses and his ruffled hair, he looks like Potter. It’s not helping Draco’s mood.

“Ask, then.”

Bradley leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. “What are you up to?”

Draco restrains a sigh. He thought he’d avoided tiresome brats when he left the library. “Research.”

“But you’re a murderer, aren’t ya? Killed people for Voldemort. Just ‘cause they didn’t send you to Azkaban don’t mean you’re not working for evil. Nobody ever sees you ‘round neither, for meals or nothing.”

Years ago, the accusation would leave him furious. Now Draco merely pulls open a drawer. “You’re right. Want to see what I’ve been working on?” The two boys lean forward, eyes like saucers. Draco fishes out his unfinished manuscript and plops it onto the table.

Hussain reads aloud, “ _A Comprehensive History of Invisibility Magic._ ”

“I’m afraid there’s no secret plot to uncover, except to put some well-read people to sleep. I don’t eat meals in the hall because I’m trying to avoid a public scene. And for the record, I have plenty to atone for, but I never killed anyone.”

Bradley scowls. “But you’re a Death Eater.”

“I was. I’ve changed, but it’s your choice if you believe me. Next time you accuse someone, though, collect some evidence.”

Hussain blurts out, “We’re sorry.” Even Bradley’s sulking masks shame. Draco knows posturing like that all too well.

He eyes them until an idea strikes him. “Do you boys like Quidditch?”

Bradley shifts in his seat. “I’m training to be a Beater next year, and Malik’s a Seeker.”

“Good.”

Twenty minutes later, the boys have rounded up friends for an impromptu game. They whisper and stare at Draco, but he ignores this. Someone lends him a Nimbus. He’s rusty enough to earn a collective laugh at his wobbly start, but soon he’s back in his element. For the hell of it, he launches himself straight up into the air, then loops around with a cocky grin. Some of the children cheer and applaud.

It’s a mixed group that has somehow accumulated all four houses. The players have varying degrees of skill, but despite the cloudy weather and the cold, everyone seems invested. Spectators gather at the edges of the field, bundled in earmuffs and mittens.

Bradley is mediocre but talks a big game. Timid Hussain is all focus on the field, and they hurtle neck and neck in pursuit. One of the girls nearly sends a Bludger careening into his head. Draco missed Quidditch, and after Hussain nabs the Snitch, he ruffles his hair and says, “Not bad, kid.” The boy flushes with pride.

It’s only then that he realizes the trap he’s fallen into. Someone’s told Madam Hooch, and she storms onto the field, scowling. “Draco Malfoy!”

He makes a shooing motion at the kids and flies down to intercept her. “Madam Hooch.”

“This is _my_ field, and you haven’t asked permission to use it.” Her shock of spiky gray hair accentuates her anger.

“I apologize. It was impromptu, but I should have asked.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He gestures lamely at the students, who stand huddled together, trying to eavesdrop. “I thought it would prove that I’m not as scary as my reputation.”

She glares at the group, then delivers a pronounced sniff. “I don’t see the need. You don’t scare me in the least.” She jabs a finger into his chest. “Next time, come to my office and you can use the schedule.”

He gapes until she turns to leave. “Thank you.” She ignores him and marches off, but he’s relieved as he turns back to the group and grimaces. “Heard that? If you snots want to do this again, plan ahead.”

They break into smiles, and Bradley holds his hand out for a high five. Draco returns it before ordering them to go shower and warm up. Trudging inside, he sees a familiar face leaning in the doorway. “Nice game.”

He scans their surroundings as a precaution, then winks at Neville. “Up for a shower?”

Neville bops him on the head, but he doesn’t say no.

 

*

 

Neville’s mouth is slack, eyes unfocused, and with every stroke of Draco’s hips, he groans, his voice pitched an octave lower than usual. “Ah! Fuck. Draco, it’s so…”

He slows for a second, teasing. “More?”

Neville frantically tries to pull him closer, his grip on Draco’s back growing painful. “Touch me, please.” A teardrop clings to his eyelash.

Draco brushes the tear away, then kisses Neville’s cheek. “Since you asked so nicely.” He pistons his hips, savoring the tremble along Neville’s shoulders, and wraps his hand around Neville’s cock.

Shuddering, Neville gasps out, “Coming…” It tugs Draco over the edge. They fall into each other as their orgasms crash over them.

Draco slides out and flops over. Neville is boneless, breaths still heavy. Reaching over him, Draco borrows Neville’s wand to cast a cleaning spell, then joins him in a loose-limbed sprawl. After a few minutes, Draco makes a tutting noise. “Don’t sleep.”

Neville scrunches up his nose, but manages to look more coherent. “I’m not.”

“You should lay your clothes out. You’re going to London tomorrow.”

“About that.” Neville turns to face him, looking hopeful. Draco’s stomach coils. “I thought maybe you could join me. Gran wouldn’t mind.”

It’s a weighty invitation, meeting Neville’s parents, but Draco hasn’t forgotten their expiration date. He wishes Neville had more romantic options here; maybe then he could be with someone who deserves him. “I have a chapter to finish. I owe the publishers a draft.”

Neville’s face falls, but he faces the ceiling and says in an unconvincing offhand manner, “Of course. Maybe some other time.”

It leaves a sour taste in Draco’s mouth. He’s doesn’t need to be pressured. He was very clear about his expectations, and if Neville ignores that and gets his hopes up, that’s his problem.

Neville hauls himself up. Draco watches him for a long second before saying, “I’ll sleep in my room tonight.” He sits up, hunting for his boxers.

Frowning, Neville tosses a pair of socks from the closet onto the bed. “There’s no need.”

“You need to rest without being woken up.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“And how will you explain the yawning to Augusta?” He begins dressing. “It’s just for a night.”

Neville doesn’t look him in the eyes, just shuffles through a drawer of slacks. “Alright.”

“I’m making Indian food tomorrow.” Draco slips on his robes and walks over to kiss Neville’s cheek. “Goodnight.” He doesn’t get a reply.

When he’s in his own quarters, he kicks a leg of his kitchen table in frustration. A porcelain mug tips off and shatters. Draco swears at it vindictively before kneeling to pick up the pieces.


	8. gardenia // secret love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late chapter. Life chaos and all.

The first large snowfall happens on the first day of December, as if to usher in a new season. Draco’s resolved that if he can’t be a proper boyfriend, he can leave behind good memories. He bakes snowdrops and carries the box over to the greenhouse.

Neville is bundled in winter robes, brushing snow off his plants. He jumps when Draco taps his shoulder and removes his earmuffs. “Can’t hear a thing in these! Enjoying the snow?”

“Not particularly.” He holds out the box, hoping his pink face can be attributed to the cold.

Neville peeks inside. “Cookies? You’re wonderful. Want to eat them together, or are you busy?”

“I thought that I’d take the day off, since your classes are cancelled.”

Beaming, Neville leans in for a kiss. It’s stupid to do this outside, but Draco obliges him and is rewarded with delighted eyes. “Perfect.”

Embarrassed, Draco turns and leads the way, stomping through the pristine snow with his boots. The greenhouse is always warm, and as they unbundle, a puddle seeps across the floor. Neville _Accios_ cocoa from his kitchen while Draco lays out a picnic blanket and some chipped plates.

Neville’s face is blissful as he bites down. “Mmmmm.”

“Like them?” It’s obvious, but Draco loves praise.

“They’re perfect. Everything is perfect. You spoil me.”

Thoughtlessly, Draco replies, “You deserve to be spoiled.” Neville grins, and Draco flushes even more. “You take care of others to the point of exhaustion. It’s very Gryffindor of you, worshipping at the altar of self-sacrifice. Frankly, you should fix that.”

With a fond smile, Neville stuffs a snowdrop in his mouth. “You’re cute when you’re dishonest.”

Draco swallows and pinches his arm. “You’re patronizing when you romanticize me.”

Before Neville can reply, something shatters a window and flies into the greenhouse. Neville instinctively casts a blocking spell. It drops near Draco’s feet. It’s a crumpled piece of parchment around a rock. With shaking hands, Draco unfolds it to read, _Leave Professor Longbottom alone, Death Eater slut!!!_

Neville snatches the paper from Draco before he can hide it, then stands, eyes blazing. He laces up his boots with a spell, not bothering with his jacket and gloves, and stomps out into the cold, wand at the ready.

Draco tries to gather himself, trembling as he shrugs on a jacket. They’ve been discovered. _He’s_ been discovered. He ignored his better judgment, and now he’ll never restore his family name, never have children, never be accepted into Wizarding society, never make his parents happy…

A shrieking noise interrupts the train of thought. Draco laces on his boots. Realizing the cold will shrivel the plants, he casts a wandless _Reparo_ on the window. Miraculously, it works. Then he hurries outside to find Neville gripping a Hufflepuff by the arm, grimacing, as she wails, “I’m sorry, Professor Longbottom! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! I just wanted to protect you!”

Neville raises his voice over the clamor. “Draco, this is Hortense from fifth year. Professor Vector’s niece.” Draco stares in horror at the miserable girl and the curious students milling about.

As if on cue, Professor McGonagall sweeps through the crowd. “Students return inside, please. Now.” They scatter. She takes charge of Hortense, motioning for Neville and Draco to follow. They trail behind her. Neville reaches for his hand, but Draco snatches it away. Regretting it, he turns to apologize, but Neville gives him an understanding look and squeezes his arm.

Inside the office, McGonagall makes Hortense sit in her high-backed chair. Draco drops into the opposite chair, sending his iciest glare the girl’s way, while Neville paces nearby.

It’s McGonagall who begins. “I think I can guess what happened here.”

Hortense is all too eager to speak up. “He’s drugged Professor Longbottom! That Death Eater snuck him a love potion! I saw them kiss with my own eyes!”

McGonagall’s mouth flattens into a thin line. “Their affairs are none of your concern, but for the record, Professor Longbottom has not been under the influence of any love potions. I tested myself.”

Oh. Then she knew, and neither of them ever trusted him. He refuses to look at Neville’s face, angrily blinking back the instinctive prick of tears.

Neville says softly, “Draco, not because…”

McGonagall clears her throat. “Not because of my own doubts, but to establish a record should a situation such as this arise.” An intelligent move. If only that took away the sting. 

“You mean…” Hortense trails off, astonished.

Neville growls at her, a noise that makes Draco jump in his seat. “Are you the one who’s been harassing Dra—Mr. Malfoy?”

She nods, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know! My aunt told me he was planning something, and I thought he was going to do it again. She said he was going to hurt Muggleborns like me."

Draco’s jaw stiffens, and he holds up a hand to silence Neville. “Your aunt misled you. I just want to live a peaceful life.”

Hortense begins to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Neville fumbles in his pocket and hands her a frayed handkerchief, already melting. Draco’s not sure if he’s fond or outraged at this typical display of kindness.

“You were watching me in the library?”

“Yes. I - I thought I might catch you up to something.”

“The notes on my door?”

“Also me.” She lets out a tremendous sniffle and blows her nose.

“You ransacked my room?” She doesn’t seem precocious enough to undo his wards.

“What?” Hortense shakes her head. “I didn’t do that! I swear, that wasn’t me!” She dissolves into a fresh round of tears.

McGonagall sighs. “If Mr. Malfoy and Professor Longbottom could put forward your conditions for Hortense, I’ll refrain from expulsion. Instead you will spend a considerable time in detention with me, cleaning my office. Neville, make Hortense a cup of tea and settle this, would you? I’m going to return with Professor Vector.” She exits into the hallway,

Neville leans down next to her. “It was a stupid thing you did.” Her lip quivers. Draco recognizes himself in her star-crossed eyes. The little twit has a whomping crush on Neville. “It’s okay, but I’d prefer…well. To make it up to him, don’t tell anyone about what you saw, okay? Not your friends, not family, not the press. It’s important that you keep it a secret from everyone. Can I trust you?”

Hortense nods with force, brown curls bouncing. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Good girl. Look, I’m sure he won’t hold it against you.” He shoots Draco an imploring look.

Draco’s lip curls, but he replies tonelessly, “No, I won’t.”

“Any more conditions?”

“No.”

The room falls silent except for the honking noise of Hortense and the handkerchief. Neville paces again. Feeling drained, Draco directs his gaze at a spinning astrolabe.

The door opens and Vector enters. She’s tall and thin, with brown curls like Hortense, wearing her permanent cherry red lipstick. Resentment pools in Draco’s gut as he recalls their pleasant conversations in the hallway. He never expected her to harbor this kind of malice.

In clipped tones, she says, “Minerva, I don’t understand.” She turns to take in Neville, then Hortense, then Draco. “You!”

“Yes, me,” he deadpans.

Minerva shuts the door. “Your niece has been discovered as the person harassing Mr. Malfoy for the duration of his visit. It seems to have been at your provocation. There is also the charge of searching his rooms which I believe may also lie at your feet.”

For a moment, it seems as if she’ll deny it. Then Vector’s features transform into an ugly snarl. She rounds on Draco. “I don’t care if you didn’t kill them. You’re responsible. Muggleborns like Hortense aren’t safe with you around. And everyone is too _stupid_ to throw you into Azkaban and let a Dementor kiss you!”

In a warning tone of voice, wand drawn, McGonagall says, “Professor, collect yourself.” From behind her, Neville protectively moves towards Draco.

Vector continues the tirade, face almost purple with rage. “I won’t be fooled by this monster. No, I’ve had my eyes open since the first day. I don’t know what you’re planning, but you won’t do it, Death Eater! I won’t _let_ you!” She takes a step towards him. “Answer! Do you hear me?”

Draco wishes this affected him more. Maybe it would speak to a good conscience. But he’s heard every possible variation on this theme. He leans back and says in the mildest possible voice, “Oh, I hear you.”

She lifts her wand and screams, _“Crucio!”_ And Salazar, it hurts. Blinding pain sears through his body, and he can feel the grating sensation on his lungs but he won’t scream, won’t give in. He’s done this before. He feels pain shooting up his spine, blossoming in his head, stabbing at his chest. Maybe he’s dying. Maybe it’ll all be over soon.

 

*

 

He comes round to see Neville’s worried face hunched over him as he cradles Draco’s head in his lap.

Draco wipes the spittle from his mouth and groans. He can feel tear tracks drying on his face.  
  
“Idiot. You can’t turn your wit off for a second? Just to avoid this?”

He turns his head to the side and coughs. A metallic taste enters his mouth. “No.” Neville helps him sit up, and he leans his head on the familiar shoulder. It takes him a minute to muster the energy to speak. “Where is she?”

“Ran. I expect McGonagall is dueling her. She said she’d handle it. I sent Hortense to get Madam Pomfrey.”

“Who’s hurt?”

“ _You,_ Draco.”

“I’m fine.”

“Shut _up._ ” Neville’s voice cracks. Draco turns to face him, puzzled, and remembers the Longbottom parents. Oh.

“Really.” He kisses Neville’s cheek. “I promise, I’m fine.”

Neville buries his face into Draco’s neck. He stays there until the door bangs open and Hortense enters, looking traumatized. It’s unclear if the ordeal or seeing them cuddling is worse for her, but Draco gives her credit for the stiff upper lip.

 

*

 

He’s strong-armed by his well-meaning lover into spending the night in the hospital wing, on the condition that Neville goes to his rooms and gets a good night’s rest. Draco underestimated his own exhaustion; he downs a bowl of soup, then passes out for 13 hours straight. There are no nightmares.

He wakes up to see a small pair of legs swinging in the chair next to him. It’s Hussain, flipping through _The Case of the Missing Flagon_ with a box of chocolate frogs perched in his lap.

Draco shifts until he’s upright. “Good book?”

Hussain looks up and nods. “The mermaids just took Diana to their cave.” He fidgets, unsure of what to say.

“Right.” Draco drains his glass of water. “Are those for me?”

“And these.” Hussain motions to a small stack on Draco’s bedside table. “We heard that Professor Vector attacked you. Then she dueled McGonagall outside, and McGonagall Stupefied her and then built a sort of cage around her. It was incredible. They sent her to St. Mungo’s.”

“What about Hortense?”

“I don’t know her, but she was crying in the Great Hall. Because her aunt went mad.”

“And that’s all you heard.”

“Yes.” Hussain adjusts his glasses. “Why? What else happened?”

“Nothing. You don’t have class?”

“Herbology just finished. Professor Longbottom asked me to let him know if you woke up.”

“He worries too much.” He gestures, and Hussain hands over the chocolate box. “Don’t report to him, and we can just split these instead. Got another book?”

“The sequel.” Hussain fishes in his bag and pulls out _A Night for Witch Hunting._ Draco hands him a chocolate frog; he pops it into his mouth and grins. They spend a leisurely hour reading and stuffing themselves, and when McGonagall comes around, she takes the last one for herself.

 

*

 

Neville finds him after lunch, smoking outside, and immediately asks, “How are you feeling?" 

“Fine.” The snow has been cleared from the flagstones, but a crisp white sheet still blankets most of the landscape. Interspersed are patches of burnt grass, scorched from the McGonagall-Vector duel.

“If you’re angry about the love potion test—“

“You don’t need to apologize. It was rational. I’m impressed that two Gryffindors made such a Slytherin-minded plan.” Draco’s throat tightens, so he pauses to puff on his cigarette.

“Bad habit,” Neville says.

“What?”

“Smoking. Magic can’t grow you new lungs.”

“Did I ask for your input?”

Neville scuffs the ground with a toe. “I know you wouldn’t poison me.”

Draco swallows before replying, “She said drugged. Something that a Muggleborn would say.” He catches Neville’s sharp look, as if he had expected Draco to use Mudblood. There it is. “I thought that was fascinating.”

“I trust you.”

“No, you don’t. You’ve been through a war, and I was the enemy. It’s not that simple.”

“It _should_ be,” Neville says, shoulders slumping. And that’s why Draco forgives him, even though it hurts to know. Because at least Neville desperately wants to overlook his horrible past, his thorny sides, and sees something worthwhile in Draco. He should be grateful.

Draco extinguishes the cigarette. He usually makes people wallow in their guilt as penance, but with Neville that feels so _wrong,_ like torturing a small animal. “It’s okay. I’m not angry.”

“I’d be angry, if I were you.”

“No you wouldn’t, you saint. I’m trying to act like you.” Draco offers a teasing grin. “Except I forgot to prepare a speech.”

“You’re ridiculous.” A smile plays at the corners of Neville’s mouth. “Are we still…?”

There’s no one in sight, but Draco’s learned his lesson. He’s careful with his words. “You don’t deserve any of this.”

“Don’t do that. I’m saying that I want…you know what I’d prefer, okay? It’s not hard to tell.”

No. It’s not. “Then the short answer is yes.”

“Good.” They spend a moment in silence, and Draco wonders, again, why the universe is so determined to keep him alive. Neville yawns. “Come on, back to work.”

As they turn to go, a girl from the Quidditch game runs up. “Mr. Malfoy! I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Thank you, Anaïs. It’s good to be safe.”

Out of nowhere, she darts in for a hug before waving and taking off.

Neville arches an eyebrow at him. “Popular now, aren’t you? Hugging’s a risk.”

“I didn’t ask for it, did I? It’s like a swarm of attention-starved brats. Imagine how many will join the pack when the Weasley brood starts multiplying.”

“Draco.”

“It was a joke. I’m sure they’ll have sixteen children apiece and plenty of love for each one.”

_“Draco.”_

“Sorry. Old habits, right? I really should cut back on smoking.”


	9. gladiolus // honor

“I like the color.”

Draco turns away from the window, where he’s watching a fresh layer of snow pile up, as Neville emerges from the bedroom. He can’t help smirking. “I chose it for a reason.” The dress robes are forest green and a nicer cut than anything Neville owns.

Neville fidgets with a sleeve. “Isn’t it tight?”

Draco walks over and smooths the shoulders, casting a quick spell to remove lint. “It’s perfect. I’m sure you’ll find the right occasion for them in Paris.”

“Don’t make me nervous.”

“It’s a holiday, not an exam. And Augusta deserves to celebrate her 80th somewhere nicer than Yorkshire.”

“But Gran doesn’t even like sightseeing. It’ll just be parties. She wants me to be a society man.”

“You’re an academic. You should be right at home at a soiree.”

Neville mutters darkly, “As long as there’s no dancing.” He leans down for a kiss. “They are lovely. Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas. Speaking of, aren’t you forgetting something?”

Neville laughs. “Impatient, aren’t you? Let me change and then I’ll fetch it.” He disappears back into the bedroom.

It’s the 20th, but tomorrow they leave for the holidays. Draco can’t stop thinking about his book. It’s closer to completion than he’d expected. Finishing means leaving Neville. He could prolong it until the school year ends.

But maybe he’d be doing both of them a disservice. As Muggles say, better to rip off the bandage.

Neville returns, a large and lumpy package in his hands. Unlike the crisp finish of Draco’s, the wrapping paper looks crumpled. “Don’t get your hopes too high. I’m not much at gift giving.”

Draco points a warning finger at him. “Stop doing that.” Neville’s humility is sweet, but Draco is already tired of how he sells himself short.

“Sorr—” Neville catches his mistake. “Okay.”

Draco slices through the wrapping with a pair of scissors, unveiling multiple boxes. The first contains a set of mugs shaped like cauldrons. The second is a vintage Magpies jersey, Hamish MacFarlan, along with a set of Magpies cufflinks. And the third is a glass box full of plants. He can’t help a laugh. “I should have known.”

“They’re useful, though! Dittany, wormwood, asphodel. I thought you could plant them at the Manor, and that way you’d have a ready supply at home.” He pauses. “Of course, your parents would have to check on them. But plants aren’t too much work, are they?”

Draco sets down the box so he can pepper Neville with kisses.

 

*

 

It’s a pain to take the Hogwarts Express back to London before Apparating to Wiltshire, but then again, he’s lucky to still have a license after the Wizengamot trial.

The Manor is as he left it, which means disrepair. White peacocks still strut along the hedges, but they look thinner, their plumage dulled. He passes through the illusion of wrought-iron gates and walks up to the imposing front doors. They’re opened by Timby, one of their two remaining house-elves. “Master Draco!”

“Good morning, Timby. My parents?”

“Taking afternoon tea, sir.”

First he stops upstairs to drop off his trunk, fending off Timby’s insistent requests to handle it. His room is spacious, a king bed with green silk sheets and silvery pillows in its center. There are telltale signs of shabby upkeep between two overworked house-elves: the Persian rugs have collected some dust, and the overpowering smell of mothballs in his closet gives him a coughing fit.

He hasn’t touched his record collection since the war. He decides to play some jazz, though his parents hate it, and fishes out a Billie Holiday record. He’s unpacking to her sweet crooning when he feels a presence in the doorway: his father. He’s still dressed in elegant robes, with only frayed cuffs as a giveaway, but there’s something broken in his hunch, his dark circles and hollowed cheeks. “Welcome home.”

“Father. I’ll just be a minute.”

“Take your time.” Father disappears again. He’s retreated into near-silence, usually shut up in his study, but he tries to be present when his son visits.

Draco opts for a navy blue jumper and then heads downstairs. The row of Malfoy portraits greets him as he descends the spiral staircase:

“Looking well, my boy!”

“A real credit to the legacy. And as good-looking as his mother.”

“Someone has to restore the family name. Absolute shambles.”

Ignoring them, he makes his way to the tea room. Father sips from a cup, poring over _The_ _Times_. Mother is delicately spreading clotted cream on a scone, but sets it down with a smile. “Draco.” She envelops him in a hug and he kisses her cheek, lightness filling him inside. “You’re looking so well.”

He can’t mention that Neville ensures that he eats meals. Instead he says, “Couldn’t have you worrying, could I?”

“And deprive me of my job?” She pours him a cup. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Can it wait until I’ve eaten?” As if on cue, Kilby appears with a fresh batch of scones.

“Eat, then. I’ll tell you what happened to the Ashtons.” He works his way through three scones while she recounts society gossip. Between mouthfuls, he provides snarky comments. Despite all the other indignities of their circumstances, the scones are as delicious as ever.

Finally, he leans back. “So? What’s the surprise?”

She straightens out, her head taking on an imperious tilt. She acts commanding when she knows he won’t approve. “A family has requested a match between you and their daughter.”

“…What?”

“I’m asking that you meet her and consider it.”

His mind is whirling. He thinks of Neville, but it’s a thought best compartmentalized. “Mother, I’d be happy to. But who offered?”

Her eyes sparkle, though she maintains her composure. “The Greengrass family has asked that you meet their second eldest. She was in school with you: Astoria.”

“Impossible.” The word is out before he can collect himself. Still, it’s the truth. “Why would they want me? They’re rolling in it and their reputation is fine. Is this a trap to humiliate us?”

Father lowers the newspaper to fix him with a stern look. “You’ve won back favor in society, so don’t disparage your efforts.”

“I…” He trails off. He’s sure that at some point she was part of his flock of admirers, but the recollections are vague. “Alright. When?”

“The day after Christmas, when the family returns from Aspen.” Mother is beaming. His stomach constricts. He tries to smile in return before excusing himself to his room.

 

*

 

There is little talk of the upcoming meeting with Astoria, aside from the meal preparations and an extra effort from poor Timby and Kilby to make the Manor presentable. The only unsatisfactory part of home is relearning to sleep in an empty bed. The first time he starts awake with the Dark Lord’s voice in his ear, he lies awake for hours, his mind spinning with irrational fear. He misses the comfort of Neville’s arms.

Otherwise, the holidays pass in their usual manner. His mother has regular guests, but she’s cancelled them to spare Draco. He spends most of his time tailing after her as she dissects the social blunders of her various circles. In the evenings, he reads by the fireplace near his father, who comments on politics or brings up some ancient trivia about the Malfoy house. It’s easy to slip back into these old rhythms.

The only new thing is the box of plants, which he leaves in the sunroom. He can’t help smiling when he sees them, though it’s strange to have a touch of Neville in a place like this. Mother gives him an inquiring look. “Where did they come from?”

“They were a gift.” He pauses, considering his words. “Since Professor Longbottom and I are collaborating on the moonflower research. I suppose it was a gesture to prove no hard feelings.”

“He seems like a thoughtful boy. Though anyone raised under Augusta Longbottom’s iron fist would know their manners. How did you like her?”

“I never thought a woman in that sort of hat could be so imposing.”

Mother laughs. “She’s certainly a force of nature.”

“An easterly gale.”

“No, too fickle. She’s sturdier than that.”

“A mountain, then. Kilimanjaro.”

“Don’t say it in public, dear. A well-orchestrated dinner and she could shut you out of good society forever.” 

 

*

 

On Christmas morning, he presents Father a multi-volume history of wizards in the Peloponnesian War and Mother a set of new china. They splurged on a pair of orchestra tickets to a London production of _La Traviata_ , and his mother encourages him to “take someone”. He briefly wonders if Neville likes opera before realizing that she’s referring to Astoria. He thanks her with a tight smile. 

The day passes in uneventful peace. They break out the oldest of the remaining wines in the cellar; like the family treasures, the best ones were sold off years ago. Still, Kilby makes a fantastic roast followed by clementine and gingerbread trifle. They play Tchaikovsky and debate the merits of literary absurdism (with Draco as the defendant). Mother insists on a photograph so she can show her circles a recent picture of Draco.

To the outside world, his family as a caricature, but Draco savors home. He’s been away for too long.

 

*

 

The Greengrasses look strangely enthusiastic for their daughter to be matched to a disgraced outcast. Maybe Draco underestimated the weight his surname carries.

Astoria, he admits, is a stunning witch. He remembers her older sister Daphne, a cold-eyed and beautiful blonde who kept to herself. The younger sister has a friendlier disposition, soft golden-brown curls and blue eyes. A sense of humor lurks under her impeccable manners. On top of being an heiress, she works as a fashion photographer. Smart, accomplished, gorgeous: every box is ticked. His mother could purr and he wouldn’t be surprised.

Draco knows he’s being stiff, but the thought of lying to her for seventy more years is paralyzing.

After tea and some formal questions about their careers and prospects, they’re herded into the library. She seats herself in an armchair, so he takes the opposite one and fumbles for words. “I suppose I’d like to start by knowing you better.”

She holds up a hand, looking nervous. He wonders if she has a checklist prepared. “Don’t panic, but I should start by saying that I know you’re gay. I’ve known for years.”

He freezes, eyes sliding to the door, though he can hear both sets of parents downstairs. “What?”

“You discussed it with Pansy in the common room once. Not your brightest idea. I had a massive crush on you, so I used to eavesdrop. But I never told anyone, promise.”

He stares at her, thunderstruck.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m lesbian. Figured it out a few years ago.”

He can’t help frowning. “And you want this match?”

She shrugs.  “I’m also a pureblood, and a Slytherin, and unfortunately, that means something to me. I’m sure you understand.” She pauses, and he nods. “I want a respectable marriage. I want children. So do you, from what Pansy says.”

“Pansy?”

“Yes. I asked her and confirmed that we’re a perfect fit.”

“Except I don’t have money, and the Malfoy name is a downgrade for you.”

“Your income is enough. I promise that we have piles. And your name will bounce back. Anyway, you have the ideal trait, which is that I won’t have to fuck my husband more than necessary.”

His mind is reeling from the influx of ideas, but he appreciates her bluntness. “Is that why your parents are so eager?”

She sighs. “They were put out by my preferences. You’re a compromise they’d be happy to make. Anyway, they knew I liked you back in the day, so I’ve painted you as the exception to the rule.” She points a finger at him. “To be clear, there are no exceptions.”

“And your love life?”

“She moved back to Spain.” Draco raises an eyebrow at her. “Oh! No, I think…even if I could find someone in our society, I’d be giving up too much for it. But we’d both be able to have outside relationships if we liked, and there would be no lies. Just parents and partners.”

“Astoria, we hardly know each other.”

“So get to know me.” She reaches forward and puts a hand on his arm. “But be honest. How much would you know your partner if you were matched with anyone else? This is a chance for us to have everything we want.”

His mind flashes to a pair of warm brown eyes, a wide smile, a deep laugh. He extinguishes the thought. She’s right. This is a more practical arrangement than he’d ever dreamed of. He could have the wife and the child without the lies. Maybe he could even have a standing arrangement. Not Neville, who deserves much more than to be a side piece, but someone else.

Astoria smiles in relief at his expression. “We can take a few weeks. Get to know each other and make sure it’ll work out.”

“Yes, I’d prefer that. I’m also…” He trails off. “I’m seeing someone.”

“Serious?”

He swallows. “No. I told him this was coming. I just didn’t think it would be so soon.”

She looks at him with sympathetic eyes, then reaches for his hand. “Whichever way you want to do this, we’ll do this.”

He wishes he knew.

 

*

 

An owl arrives. There’s a photograph from a society party in Paris. In the background is Augusta, looking imperious on a couch and instructing France in the art of knitting or jujitsu or whatever terrifying hobbies she enjoys. In the foreground is Neville, looking bored beyond words as he slouches and sips a drink.

The accompanying postcard: _What did I tell you? Gran hates this pic, or maybe me, though she’ll get over it. Eiffel Tower was neat. Chuffed to meet a brilliant herbologist here, Raghda Hattab. Otherwise, missing you and the gardens. Hope your break is going well. – N_

Well? He’d rather offer himself as an hors d’ oeuvre for an Acromantula than think about Neville right now, but otherwise, yes. Things are going well.

 

*

 

There’s nothing he wants less than to go to Pansy’s New Year’s party. Still, Mother seems pleased that he’s venturing into society again, even if she disapproves of his choice of skinny tie.

The Parkinsons seem to have lost their posh London penthouse. However, being CEO of a fast-fashion wizard robes company must be lucrative, because Pansy rents out a large ballroom on the outskirts of Birmingham. He can hear the thrum of voices inside and grits his teeth before entering.

He’s late, but she emerges from a throng of the black-tie-clad to greet him. Her dress has white crystals emerging from a shoulder; despite her avant-garde tastes, he admits that she looks good. “Draco, you fucking tosser.” She kisses his cheek, balancing a glass of champagne in one hand. “Not too shabby.”

He takes her offered arm. “You look stunning.”

“You’d better not have expected any less. This way. You need a drink.” She leads him through crowds of well-dressed and stylish people, all of whom turn to greet her or kiss her cheek. Most of them eye Draco with envy. He wonders how many come from the business world.

“I haven’t spent much time in company.”

“Too busy stirring cauldrons. You never were fun, though, at least not at parties.” She orders him a scotch in the haughty, bored tone she reserves for the hoi polloi. “Blaise didn’t come. Decided to jet off to Dubai, but I think he’s whining after his break-up.”

“Right. Who with?”

She slaps his arm. “Melanie! You haven’t changed, you prick.”

He’s not sure how to respond to that, so he takes a long sip instead and looks around. “What about you?”

“Nothing serious. I’m focused on the Chinese market, so I don’t have time for men except the one over there who’s considering a merger.” She points out a tall and suave-looking Chinese man in a far corner. “Astoria said you’re considering the match.”

“Yes. I didn’t know you were friends.”

“We hired her for one of our ad campaigns. She’s a talented photographer. You should look at her work.”

“I should.”

Pansy glares at him. “Well?”

“We’re going to the opera in a few weeks.”

“Bloody romantic, you are. Come on. Too many people in this damn place.”

“It’s _your_ party.”

“Don’t remind me. I need at least three refunds tomorrow.” She leads him to an exit. The gardens are too dark to admire, even strung up with fairy lights. Already someone is setting off fireworks, and distant crackles ring out around the grounds. Pansy casts a warming spell on herself, then one on Draco, and a charm to drown out any listening ears. “You like the arrangement with Astoria, then?”

He fishes for a cigarette and lights it. “I do. Thanks.”

“Don’t do that. I’ll stop inviting you to things. I know you can still shag blokes like this, but is it what you want?” Her eyes betray her concern, and he feels a sudden rush of gratitude. After all this time, she still cares.

He puffs out smoke. “There’s two people in the world who love me, and they’re my parents. This is the best way to give them what they want. Not having to pretend with Astoria is a bonus.”

“I didn’t ask what they want. Plus your old man’s a bit of a nutter, isn’t he?”

“Fuck off.”

“Okay, sorry. But come off it, Draco.”

He pauses. The thought of not seeing Neville anymore rips at his heart. He wishes he could share that with someone, but it’s a secret. And what does it matter? He knows his decision. “I can’t have it both ways. This is my choice.”

She nods. “For what it counts, I think you’re making the right one.” She plucks the cigarette from his hands and takes a drag. “Back to the party. You’re dancing with me.”

“Must I?”

“I need to make Mr. Wen jealous, so look at me like I’m Sexiest Witch of the Year. Or Bloke of the Year, if that helps you.” She mutters a spell to fix her lipstick, then tugs on his hand to drag him back inside.

 

*

 

The next morning, after dealing with his raging hangover and the blackened mess that Pansy refers to as ‘breakfast’, he finally replies.

_Hope you enjoy the rest of your trip. Happy new year. – Draco_


	10. wormwood // sorrow

Draco has survived a brutal war, an incensed public chomping at the bit for his head, and Pansy’s cooking. He can handle ending a relationship.

But here he is, just returned to Hogwarts and hiding in an upstairs alcove. Flurries swirl beyond the glass. Far below his window, distant shapes scurry in from the cold. He can’t tell if any of them have gardener’s hands or a strand of damp hair that curls into their eyes.

He’s slept badly for the past few days, plagued with the nightmare of killing Neville. Trust his brain to overdramatize things. Maybe it’s not about Neville at all. It’s just hard to give up the dream that he represents.

In his mind, he rehearses what he’d say if Neville rounded the corner. But it’s a huge castle, and Draco’s hiding, so he doesn’t.

 

*

 

He eats dinner in the kitchens. It’s late when he returns to his rooms, trying to close his door softly. A minute later, though, there’s a soft knock. When he opens it, Neville is smiling down at him. “It’s been a while.” Draco steps back, and Neville closes the door behind him. He reaches out to cup Draco’s face in his, his thumb brushing across a dark circle. “Was home that bad?”

“What? No.” Draco pushes his hand off. “Why would you think that?”

Neville grimaces. “I just thought, with your parents…”

Draco stiffens. “Well, you’re wrong. My holidays were fine.”

“Sorry. I’m glad you had a better time than I did.”

“How was Paris?”

“Boring. I can’t tell you how many times Gran called me an eligible young bachelor. I nearly corrected her because I was so tired of it.”

“Ah.” Draco’s is half-listening, eyes darting down towards the floor.

Neville’s brow furrows. “Is something wrong?”

Draco bites his lip, reminding himself to stay collected. He gestures to a seat at the kitchen table. “I have something to tell you.”

“That sounds ominous.” Neville sits, looking bemused.

Draco sits opposite, steeling himself to make eye contact. Better not to mince words. “I’ve been made an offer to be matched with Astoria Greengrass.”

Neville blinks at him. “What?”

“She knows I’m gay, and she’s lesbian. But both of us want to be matched and start a family. This might be my only chance to have that without lying to my partner.”

“Oh.” Neville folds his hands, looking pensive. A minute passes. Draco digs a nail into his palm, trying to remain calm. He has no reason to feel guilty. Still, he jumps when Neville says, “Don’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Even without sex, this marriage would still be a lie, wouldn’t it? What about love? You’d have to keep this up for life. Even if it’s not me, don’t sell yourself out.”

“Excuse me?” Draco scowls. He forgot about Neville’s skin-crawling Gryffindor righteousness. “Maybe this hasn’t gotten through your thick skull, but some people have priorities besides romance.”

Neville’s voice is all disbelief. “Like what? Keeping your parents happy?”

“ _Yes,_ Neville, like keeping my parents happy. They’re important to me. A gay relationship isn’t worth losing them. And how would I tell my mother that I’d never give her a grandchild?”

“You could adopt.”

“Like they’d accept that. And I don’t want to.”

“And what I want?”

Draco snaps, “Is that my problem? I told you from the beginning that this wasn’t going to last.”

Neville frowns back. “So I’m not allowed to be upset that you’re springing this on me?”

“It’s not like I planned this. And what does it matter? We’re not suited for each other anyway.”

Neville glares at him. “That’s in _your_ head, Draco. You’re the one who holds back because you won’t let the past go.”

“Are you my shrink now? Is this a bloody consultation? Because if you think that we make any sense, you’re as mental as your parents.”

Neville’s eyes glisten beneath his scowl. Draco tenses, bracing himself for the furious reaction. But Neville says with controlled anger, “This is what you do, isn’t it? You hurt people to make it easier. If I get angry then you get to feel miserable about yourself, because you like that. You like when someone tells you you’re worthless.” He stands, lip curled. “Stop being a coward, Draco.” Then he leaves, slamming the door behind him.

 

*

 

Draco’s shit at relationships. He should have known that he’d be shit at breakups, too.

It’s long before dawn, but he didn’t bother to try sleeping after that fight, so he waits in the greenhouse. His head pounds with exhaustion. He lies on the floor, staring at the crystalline patterns of ice that crisscross the glass ceiling.

The door squeaks. Boots pound in the doorway. Draco sits up, and Neville starts. “Merlin!”

He holds up his hands. “Sorry. I came to apologize.”

Neville looks like he’s been punched in the diaphragm. If there’s a shred of justice in the world, somebody will give Draco the Prometheus treatment and rip out his spleen once an hour. But Neville only walks over and sits down, a pair of shears in his hand. He looks equally drained. “You weren’t serious about us, were you? That’s why you didn’t want to meet Mum and Dad.”

Draco winces. “Neville…you’re a wonderful person. They have so much to be proud of. I don’t know what possessed you to like me, but I’ve never been that happy. Honestly.”

Neville sighs. “I thought if you were happy, you’d change your mind. I’m stupid, right? Getting my hopes up.”

“You are. But if it helps, you made it harder than I wanted it to be.”

Neville flashes him a rueful look. “Doesn’t change the result.” He sets down the shears with a clatter. “What now? With Astoria.”

“We’re still talking it over. My parents gave me opera tickets, so we’re going this weekend.”

“Gran took me to the opera once. It sounded like cats wailing, to be honest.”

Draco manages a grin. “You pleb.”

Neville doesn’t return the smile, just directs his gaze at the plants. “And us?”

Draco swallows. “I’ll be moving home at the end of the month and finishing my book there. I don’t need to be here anymore, since the research is over.”

“Oh.”

“I should have told you earlier. I just didn’t want to make Paris worse.”

“No, it’s better this way. I just wish we…well.”

“What?”

Neville turns to look him in the eye, the intensity of his expression lacerating. “If I’d known it was the last time, I’d have kissed better. Something you wouldn’t forget.”

Draco doesn’t trust himself to reply to that. Instead he shifts closer, draws their faces together and wraps his arms around Neville’s neck. Melts into Neville’s lips, mouth, pressing closer as if trying to swallow him, to devour whatever is left now.

 

*

 

He wondered if Neville would be rougher, would use sex to claim him or punish him. True to form, he does neither. He’s a gentleman, carefully spreading out their discarded clothes so Draco’s back doesn’t scrape the rough floor. Neville takes his time sucking and biting his way across every inch of skin, the warmth of his fingers searing in the humid greenhouse, until Draco forgets his pride and begs for it, swearing between gasps and moans.

“Morgana, Neville!” He tangles his fingers into Neville’s hair, pulling him close. There’s something indescribably warm in those brown eyes, the tender way they look at Draco. But that cools into resignation, and Neville gently pulls his head back, still moving inside Draco but somehow achingly distant.

Last time. Last time. A tear slips out of the corner of his eye, but Neville doesn’t kiss it away.

 

*

 

He writes a note, careful in his wording so she can show it to her parents.

_Dear Astoria,_

_How have you been since our meeting? My mother sent me copies of your fashion catalogs. Your talent is astounding. Here at Hogwarts I continue to slave over my book. Still, I look forward to working from the comfort of home._

_Things are all settled on my end. I look forward to our operatic debut._

_Sincerely,_

_Draco_  

 

*

 

The only person left to tell is McGonagall, who studies him with her hawkish gaze. He shifts uncomfortably in the chair. The portrait of Phineas Nigellus crows, “A splendid couple! Good pureblood stock to produce fine Slytherins. I commend you, young man. Too many wizards are sullying the waters, if you’ll pardon the metaphor.”

Draco considers changing his mind.

McGonagall makes an annoyed noise and mutters a spell. A thick curtain falls in front of the portrait, muffling the protests behind it. She turns back to Draco. “My sincere congratulations.” Her serious expression doesn’t fit her words. “I have the best wishes for the match.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope that your stay at Hogwarts has done you some good.”

“Yes, it was indispensable to my research.”

“I see that you will be continuing some of Professor Longbottom’s research. Do you intend to remain in contact?” There’s a knowing look in her eyes.

Draco shakes his head. “It won’t be necessary.”

“Hm.” He feels a burst of irritation at her disapproval; it’s none of her business. “And aside from your career?”

He tries to sound earnest when he says, “Being here helped me process the past and move forward. I feel ready to start a new life.”

Her sharp eyes peer at him. “Then I will only say this: some decisions, Mr. Malfoy, cannot be undone. Marriage can be a happy choice, but it will always be a burden to bear.”

He hates her wise, inscrutable nonsense, but it probably relates to how a plant killed her husband in some long-gone century. Someone knocks on the door and she gets up to answer. He sips his tea. Too lemony.  

A drawling voice suddenly sounds from above his head. “A match?” Draco freezes as he locks eyes with the Snape portrait, a slight sneer on the familiar face. The tremble in his fingers splashes droplets of tea onto his pants. “You always did value tradition so highly. I suppose that couldn’t be helped, considering your parents.”

Before he can fumble for a defense, the portrait closes its eyes and resumes its ever-napping position. McGonagall returns with an apology, and he excuses himself, shaken to the core.

 

*

 

A week passes with hardly a sign of Neville. They make small talk in passing: the book, the move, the weather. But for the most part they stay in separate orbits. Draco edits chapters in his office. Neville stays in the greenhouses.

Draco hardly sleeps anymore. He misses the weight of Neville’s body. He eats less. He knows that he needs to look healthy enough to comfort his parents, but he’s cloaked in misery. It’s only after days of self-indulgent wallowing that he realizes he forgot something.

He lurks outside the Great Hall as the dinner crowds leave. A student breaks away from the throng to rush over to him. It’s Hussain.

“Mr. Malfoy! Are you really leaving?”

He offers up an apologetic smile. “End of the week.”

Hussain deflates, eyes dropping to the floor. “Oh.”

Draco puts a hand on his shoulder. “If you ever need me for something, you write to me, okay?”

Hussain nods shyly, beaming again. “Come back and visit.”

Draco ruffles his hair. “Maybe. Now go before you get an earful from the Prefect.”

Hussain scampers off, unruly black hair bouncing. Draco turns to see Neville paused in the doorway, watching him. He nods once and makes to walk by, but Draco’s hand shoots out to grab his sleeve. “Wait.”

Neville rubs his chin, giving Draco a quizzical look. The last students trickle out.

“I realized I never asked you something.” For a moment, it’s overwhelming to be in Neville’s gaze again, but then he registers the furrow in his brow. Right. “The, uh, the moonflower. If you still want me to lead the project.”

Neville raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t I tell you? I trust you, Draco. You’re good at what you do.”

“I just wasn’t sure.”

There’s exasperation in Neville’s voice as he says, “I can keep things professional. We won’t be spending much time corresponding anyway. And your part is years off.”

“I _know_ that.”

Neville smiles faintly, and there’s a glimmer of their previous dynamic under the surface. But then he turns to go. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

It’s only partway back that he realizes that they live in the same hallway, and that Neville chose to walk in the opposite direction.

 

*

 

Astoria has spidery, loose handwriting. It has a careless ease that suits her.

_Draco dearest,_

_Mummy and Daddy were absolutely charmed that you wrote. Smart boy. Perhaps we should keep up a flourishing correspondence when you’re abroad for work. Unfortunately, you’ll have to burn this one._

_I would say that I’m sorry to hear that things are settled, but I’m not. Better to march on._

_See you when the fat lady sings._

_Astoria_

 

*

 

Everything fits into a couple trunks, which seemed manageable at first. Now he isn’t sure. He lugs the first one down the staircase at the entrance and into the driverless stagecoach, feeling ungainly. He misses his wand. He turns to get the second one, but someone is already carrying it down. Neville doesn’t hand it to him, just passes by to lift it into the stagecoach before turning to Draco. “I thought I should see you off.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“No.” Neville rubs the back of his neck. The fierce wind whistles around them. A weak January sun peers between the clouds. “Good luck, okay? With everything. I hope it works out.”

“Thank you. You too. I…” Draco almost reaches for Neville’s hand, but changes his mind and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I’ll see you.” It’s a half-truth, he thinks, but it’s too late to take it back.

“Safe travels.” Neville steps back and turns to leave for the castle.

That’s it, then. Draco clambers into the stagecoach. It whisks him down the path until Neville is a retreating figure, a shadow, a blur—gone.


	11. rosemary // remembrance

The first time is in Diagon Alley. July’s heat beats down. Sweat beads on his neck. Draco cradles Scorpius, careful not to jostle him in the rush of the crowd. He can feel the tiny wisps of breath into his neck, the small hands splayed out on his chest. Six months ago he couldn’t have imagined this protectiveness, this love and wonder and terror bundled in his arms.

Astoria is energetic today, a rarity with her postpartum. It’s been a long time since she wore a dress and heels. The peach offsets her bronzed skin; she looks gorgeous, even if he’s not the best admirer. She pulls them into Fortescue’s. “Morgana, how long has it been since we went out for a day? And without your parents hovering like vultures.”

He frowns. “You’re the one who said you couldn’t do it yourself. They’re helping.”

She rolls her eyes. “What, so I can’t vent? Shouldn’t you be taking my side? I’m your wife.”

“Yes, thank you for the reminder. What if I said that about your parents?”

“You wouldn’t, because they have better things to do than obsess over Scorpius.”

“I’m aware. In fact, they don’t do much to help at all, and neither does Daphne. Where are they now, Venice? While you’re fighting depression?”

Behind the counter, Florean arches an eyebrow at them. With a frustrated sigh, Astoria gestures to the list of flavors. “Fine. Sorry. What do you want?”

“Vanilla.”

“Boring.” There’s something complicated in how she teases him, affection laced with a sneer, but isn’t he the same? They’re both too clever by half. He hopes they settle out before Scorpius is old enough to pick up their habits.

He picks a table. She returns with two cones, one vanilla and one passionfruit. It’s a jostling act to balance Scorpius and lick his ice cream, but Draco’s practiced at it now. A couple whispering women in the corner give Astoria appreciative looks; she acts like she doesn’t notice, but he detects the faint smile on her sly mouth. “You’ll scare them off if you look too smug.”

She scrunches her nose at him but looks pleased. “I have more charm than you ever will.” She sighs. “Remember when we were going to have side flings?”

“Before you ballooned, I spent three months in Thailand, and then you popped out a baby who has to be balanced with our jobs?”

“Let’s just enjoy this while it lasts. You’ve got a little…” A dribble of ice cream trickles down his chin, but he lacks the free hand to stop it. She reaches out to wipe it off, then licks her well-manicured thumb.

Draco glances up to see Neville frozen in the doorway, looking Stupefied as he stares at their family tableau.

Then Neville’s pushed inside by two more familiar faces. It’s the Weasley-Grangers, their daughter nestled in the crook of Weasley’s arm. She must be around Scorpius’s age. Both parents follow the line of Neville’s gaze; it’s Weasley who says, “Bloody hell! Is that your baby, Malfoy?”

Granger gives him a sharp elbow to the ribs, making him wince. “Hello Astoria, Draco.”

Neville trails behind her. A year and a half has passed since their split. He looks unchanged, wearing a faded Celestina Warbeck t-shirt that shows off the heft in his arms and the padding on his stomach. The feeling of loss overwhelms Draco, and he struggles to keep his expression neutral.

Astoria is unaffected. She hardly knew any of them during school, and she doesn’t know that Neville is his ex. Draco isn’t sure if that makes it worse or better. She says with a friendly smile, “Hello, Hermione. Your daughter is very cute.”

Granger beams. “Rose is starting to sleep for more than two hours, which makes her much cuter. This must be Scorpius.”

Draco summons back his thoughts. He needs to stay cordial. “Yes. We’re taking the sleep we can get with him.” He looks past her into a familiar pair of brown eyes. “Hello, Neville.”

Neville nods at him. “How’s the research?”

“Good. We’re having some early successes with the moonflower tests. I’m sure you’ll see some reports soon. How’s Hogwarts?”

“Same as always.” Neville turns to Granger. “I’ll get our orders. Two rocky road, one strawberry?” Weasley seems like he’s going to protest, but Neville walks to the counter without waiting for a reply. Draco forces his eyes not to linger there.

Astoria shoots Draco a quizzical look, and he acts puzzled, hoping she doesn’t pick up the hints. She forges on. “How are things at the Ministry?”

Weasley shrugs. “A mess, but what’s new?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “You hardly spend any time there, dear. I’m not sure the input of an Auror is necessary.” She shrugs. “It certainly is hectic, though.”

Weasley adjusts his hold on squirming Rose and says, “Heard your lawsuit went well. Got your wand back?”

Draco nods, pulling it out of his pocket and giving it a twirl.

Hermione smiles, looking oddly pleased. “I’m so glad. You know, I’ve been advocating for more leniency in the Department. It’s been eight years already. It’s time for us to move forward.”

Everything she says sounds like an election speech. He wonders if the rumors that she’ll run for Minister of Magic after Shacklebolt retires are true. Astoria looks amused but smartly changes the topic. “How was your shopping?”

Weasley motions to their pile of bags. “Last stop, thankfully.”

There’s a beat of silence, everyone unsure what to say, when Neville returns. There’s a round of goodbyes, but Neville avoids meeting Draco’s eyes and hurries his friends out the door. Rose makes a few gurgling noises as they depart.

Astoria cradles her chin in her hand. “Why does Granger like you?”

He shrugs. “She punched me in the face once. Maybe it was therapeutic.”

“Huh. You know, I thought Longbottom would be nicer, since you’re colleagues.”

Draco’s jaw clenches. “Yes, well, I’m not a man with many fans.” Draco lifts Scorpius to pass him across the table. “I’m going to the toilet.” She looks surprised, but smiles as the baby blinks awake and rustles in her arms. Draco clenches his fists as he walks by them, willing his hands not to shake.

 

*

 

The second time is at the London conference in November. It was inevitable that they’d be presenting their findings together, and it manifests as a panel to unveil _Lumonium astridae_ and its beneficial properties to the potions-producing world.

He walks backstage into a green room. Neville is in a blue suit, reading over some notes. Draco feels the instinctive urge to fix his tie; instead, he clears his throat. “Nervous?”

Neville looks up and returns a weak grin. “Never been good with public speaking.”

“That’s rot. A classroom is public speaking. You’ll be fine. And nobody knows the subject better than you, so who’ll know if you flub?” Draco sits next to him on the thin wooden bench.

“That’s true.” He turns to Draco. “I know I sent an owl, but I have to congratulate you in person. Never dreamed that the results for memory loss would be so effective. I wish I could have used them on my dad.”

“You…” Draco pauses, scrambling for words. “I’m sorry about his passing.” He hadn’t gone to the funeral; he was abroad and found out too late. Instead he sent a large bouquet of lilies and a note.

Neville’s expression gives meaning to the word heartbroken, pulling a responding twinge of sorrow in Draco. “Thank you. We knew it was coming, at least.”

“And your mother?”

“Fine.” He clears his throat, eyes still watery. “How’s your son?”

Draco’s soft smile is inevitable when he thinks about Scorpius. “He’ll be a year in December. Babbles a lot. He’s got us all wrapped around his finger, especially me.”

“Never thought you’d be such a doting dad.” Neville says it lightly, but Draco isn’t sure how to take the statement.

“I’m as surprised as you.” Draco adjusts his cufflink. “How about you? A relationship?”

Neville shrugs. “Early days. We’ll see if it works out.”

“Ah. Best of luck.”

“Thank you.”

A pause lingers until Maxine pops her head in the door. “Draco! Scorpius tells me Aunt Maxine is his favorite.”

Draco turns in relief. “Feeding him chocolate doesn’t count.”

Maxine returns a sly grin. “They said we are on in two.” They follow her, walking onstage along with a couple other women from the team.

The presentation is detailed and technical; Astoria nods off in the front row. Mother bounces Scorpius in her lap, keeping him busy with a stuffed toy. Father pays rapt attention. He looks stern, but Draco can tell that he’s bursting with pride. He hasn’t been this excited since Draco’s wedding day.

When it ends, Neville offers a brief handshake, then departs. Draco catches a glimpse of a woman on his arm as they exit. His heart sinks, but it’s a foolish pang, and he chases it away with one of Scorpius’s tinkling laughs.

 

*

 

The third time is a wedding. He wouldn’t have come if Pansy wasn’t the bride. After all, he’s miserable, exhausted, and has a two-year-old in tow. His suit’s too loose. But he rallies for her.

The hall is enormous. It’s March, but enchanted snowflakes rain down above them, dissolving before they can touch the guests. Floating lights hover in the air. Vines wrap around the walls, and huge bouquets of white gladioli sprout from each corner. A live band plays festive violin as the guests find their seats. Draco picks one in the middle with a decent view. Blaise is sitting next to him, but so far he hasn’t actually sat down, too busy flirting with a gorgeous lawyer on the groom’s side.

A finger taps his shoulder. He turns to see Neville, looking dapper in a tux. There’s a furrow in his brow that Draco registers as concern. It’s a jolt to the heart; he blanches. “Neville.”

“Hello, Draco. I can’t believe how much Scorpius has grown.”

Scorpius peers up at Neville suspiciously. “I want cake.”

Draco sighs. “Not yet, Scor. After the ceremony.”

Neville grins and takes Blaise’s seat. “I, too, am interested in the cake.”

“Here.” Draco enchants a coloring book and crayons, then deposits Scorpius with them in the next chair. His son happily gets to work on the pictures, mumbling to himself, and Draco turns back to Neville. His tuxedo is sleek and his haircut suits him. “You clean up well.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” There’s something rakish in Neville’s grin that gives Draco goosebumps. “Gran likes the tux.”

“How is Augusta?”

“Healthy as ever. She’d put a tortoise to shame.”

Draco allows himself a wry grin at that one. “I don’t doubt it.” It’s strange that Neville is acting so friendly, and he self-consciously tucks a loose hair behind his ear.

Neville glances around the room. “Where’s Astoria?”

There’s no polite way to say, _She left a week before our son’s birthday to join her lover in Spain because she couldn’t handle our sham marriage. I’ve been coping by myself for almost a month, which is why I look like a natural disaster._ Draco opts for, “She’s abroad. Couldn’t make it.”

“Shame. This looks like a hell of a wedding.”

“Did Pansy invite you?”

“No, I’m a plus one.”

Oh. Of course. “Who?”

“Do you remember Hannah Abbott? She’s landlady of the Leaky Cauldron now. I’m still at Hogwarts, but we make it work.”

He remembers her as loud and tactless, but Draco says with a tight smile, “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks. I should go find her. Or maybe champagne first and her second.” He puts a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

Draco nods stiffly, the imprint of Neville’s warmth burning into his skin. For a moment, he wishes Scorpius wasn’t there so he could drown himself in champagne. Then he banishes the thought, scooping Scorpius into his lap and kissing his cheek. “Ready to see Aunt Pansy get married?”

Scorpius pauses to consider this. “Okay.”

With a huffed laugh, Draco conjures up a book to distract Scorpius until the ceremony starts. Blaise finally sits, but continues to make eyes at the lawyer, who sits opposite the aisle and throws flirty glances back.

It’s a grand and lavish wedding, more than even his was. There’s one key difference, though: the way Pansy lights up around Victor. He thought her handsome Kenyan millionaire might be a money match, but she seems enraptured. If only he could have had that. A nasty, venomous feeling seeps in as he watches the happy couple. His applause is half-hearted.

Scorpius skips dinner to stuff himself with chocolate cake, and Draco lets him. He’s always been the indulgent parent; Astoria is the disciplinarian. They spend a brief time on the dance floor, Scorpius bouncing in place. Pansy, who hates children, even scoops him up for a photo op. Scorpius sneezes into her shoulder. The face she makes is priceless, so Draco focuses on ragging her and pretends not to see Neville snogging Hannah at one of the tables. If he makes a vomiting noise, it’s just to himself, anyway.

It’s only when they’re leaving that Neville catches them again. “Going already?”

Draco tilts his head towards Scorpius, who is yawning in his arms. “Putting him to bed.”

“Right. Look, I was thinking that we could get coffee soon. Catch up.”

It’s nice that Neville is in a good place, but he doesn’t want to hear about it. In fact, it’s not nice, because Draco is bitter. Nor is he interested in revealing how his marriage is falling apart. The affair will hit the papers any day; Neville can get his update there. “I’m rather busy."  
  
“Oh.” Neville rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe some other time.”

“Yes.”

Hannah materializes behind Neville, her hand brushing his elbow. Draco recalls the nickname Pansy gave her in third year: Hannah Horsetooth. And now she’s at Pansy’s wedding. How times change. “You coming, Nev? Oh, am I disturbing you?”

Draco clears his throat. “No, we were leaving.” Before Neville can say anything else, he leaves for the coat rack.

That night, Scorpius sleeps with his grandparents. Draco lies down in his king bed, alone in a sea of sheets and pillows, and thinks back to the scrape of stubble on his chin, the brush of lips along his neck. Hands caressing his lower back, working their way between his thighs. He falls into a dream of Neville, smiling down at him in bed, laughing into Draco’s ribs, running a broad finger down his spine until he shivers.

It’s the worst dream he’s ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clear up any confusion, the story’s second half will be jumping to almost five years after their breakup. This chapter describes the only Draco-Neville interactions between the story’s first and second parts. Here’s a brief timeline, and I’m happy to answer more chronology questions as details emerge later. 
> 
> May 1998: Battle of Hogwarts.  
> September 2005: Draco goes to Hogwarts for research.  
> January 2006: Draco breaks up with Neville and leaves Hogwarts.  
> April 2006: Draco marries Astoria.  
> February 2007: Scorpius is born.  
> July 2007: Meeting at Fortescue’s.  
> December 2007: Moonflower conference.  
> March 2009: Pansy’s wedding.  
> November 2010: Our story picks up…


	12. daffodil // uncertainty

Draco wakes up late, feeling groggy and sick. The Sleeping Draughts are to blame, but when his son isn’t there, Scorpius plays a starring role in his nightmares. He prefers this.

A stranger is in his kitchen, flipping through the _Prophet_ in boxers and Draco’s bathrobe. The kitchen noisily clatters around him, floating pans and spatulas frying bacon and cooking eggs. Draco leans in the doorway. “Hello.”

The stranger gestures to the stove. “I’ve helped myself. I left some Sickles on the counter.”

Draco pulls a slice out of the toaster. “Did I ever get your name?”

The wizard’s mouth quirks. He is devastatingly handsome, flaunting his trimmed beard and dark eyes. “Keshav. Not keen on me staying?”

“With other wizards, I don’t…”

Keshav holds his hands up. “Joking. I’ll go soon.”

“Alright.” Draco’s only just poured himself coffee when someone raps on the door. Must be the uni students next door with his misdirected mail. He swings it open mid-yawn.

Standing in front of him is Professor McGonagall. “Good morning, Draco.” She appraises his hickeys and ratty bathrobe, then the barely-clothed figure of Keshav behind him.  “Bad time?”

*****

Usually he closes the lab early on Mondays, but someone ordered six boxes of black beetle eyes and no dragon livers. Draco is forced to Floo their suppliers and arrange a rush shipment. It’s nearly nine when he Apparates from the lab to Knockturn Alley, the wind wrestling with his thick robes. Sheets of rain slosh into the cobblestones.

Clutching his hood, he reaches a boarded-up door and mutters, “Riddles are for Ravenclaws.” He passes through the illusion into the dimly lit tavern. Blaise and Pansy are at their usual corner booth, chatting.

Draco slides in next to Pansy. Blaise signals to the bar. “Look who’s here again. Scorpius isn’t back yet?”

“No.” The bartender brings him a Butterbeer. He sips slowly, thawing his hands. “Astoria asked for two weeks. He’s back tomorrow.”

Pansy puts a hand on his arm. “Holding up?”

Blaise rolls his eyes. “Poor you, a break from parenting. What you need most in life is a good shag.”

Before he can reply, Pansy snorts. “Unlike you, he doesn’t kiss and tell.”

Blaise gives her a flirty wink. “Maybe I’m trying to sell myself, love. Is it working?”

“Horny bastard. I’ll set my husband on you.”

Draco can’t restrain a noise of exasperation. Their bit has gotten old. “If you two could shut it for a minute, I have news.” They both turn to him expectantly. “McGonagall dropped by yesterday.”

Blaise snorts. “What, for tea?”

“Professor Slughorn resigned from teaching Potions after winter holidays. Apparently there was an incident and he’s decided to retire."  
  
Pansy frowns. “Tell me she didn’t offer you the job."

 “Just for the rest of the school year. No other candidates can do short notice.”

Blaise shakes his head, disbelieving. “What are you, a Hufflepuff? Did the old bat tug your heartstrings?”

Pansy chimes in, “You run Maxine’s lab. You can’t give that up.”

“I love research, but…” Draco sighs. “I’m glad my parents watch Scorpius during the day, but I hardly see him. At Hogwarts, I could watch him myself and still spend weekends at the Manor. He could be around other wizards besides family. It’s a good environment.”

Pansy raises an eyebrow. “For him, but for you?”

Blaise nods. “Mate, last time you had to hang out with Loony Lovegood and Longbottom the Hero. Let’s not be too hasty.”

Draco takes a long sip, frowning. “Right. That’s what I’m worried about. But I already accepted.”

Pansy lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re impossible. I won’t visit, you know. I’m not dragging myself back there.”

Blaise signals for another pint. “Where’s the old boy going to retire?”

Draco glances out the window, battered by a howling gale and the spray of rain. “Majorca.”

Blaise raises his glass with a sigh. “Cheers to that.”

 

*

The next day, Astoria Floos back to the apartment with Scorpius. She looks tan enough to be otherworldly. Draco tamps down his resentment as she says gently, “Look who it is, honey.”

“Daddy!” Scorpius launches himself into Draco’s arms, vibrating with joy. His ash-blond hair has gotten even paler, sun-bleached, and his neck is red from the Barcelona sun. “Daddy, I missed you!”

Draco drops a kiss on his head, blinking back sudden tears. “I missed you too. Did you have fun in Spain?”

“I saw a cow! It was brown and there was a dog and the dog, uh. Mommy and Nia took me to the beach. And we ate clams, Daddy. I saved a shell for you! It’s in my backpack.”

“For me? You want to go get it now?” Draco sets him down, and Scorpius starts running around his legs, making happy squeaking noises. “Scor, no running. Here, go eat snack at the table.” He conjures up a juice box and crackers, but Scorpius ignores them and scampers to his room. Draco sighs and turns to Astoria, who’s still leaning against the fireplace. “Estefania didn’t come?”

Astoria shakes her head. “No. She has a gallery opening soon. But we both wanted to thank you for letting him visit.”

“Of course.” Draco crosses his arms. “You’re his mother.”

She returns a rueful smile. She’s apologized already, and the better part of him understands. Between her postpartum depression, their dysfunctional marriage, and family tension, her leaving was probably inevitable.

The worse part relishes her guilt. Good. She chose someone over Scorpius, and he’ll never forgive her for it.

She tilts her head. “How were you? Two weeks without him?”

“Fine. But…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I took a job offer to teach at Hogwarts next term. Just temporary, because Slughorn quit.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You’re quitting the lab?”

“They’ve offered a good salary. I thought it would be a nice change for Scorpius.”

There’s bitterness in her soft laugh. “Everything you do, you think of him, don’t you?”

Draco gives her a steely look, trying to swallow down his anger. “Yes.”

“Right.” She pauses. “I was hoping he could visit again. I’m afraid…he might forget me.”

Draco studies her. Sometimes Scorpius wakes in the night, asking for his Mommy, and it breaks Draco’s heart. “We could both come to Barcelona for Easter holidays. That’s two weeks.”

Her eyes light up. “Really?”

“If you and Estefania don’t mind having me.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind. It’s not like we were really—” She pauses abruptly, wincing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

He’s so used to her that it hardly stings. Instead he asks, “Do you want to stay for dinner? Tell me how it was?”

“Yes. I’d love to.” She lowers her voice. “He missed you, you know. Talked about you all the time.” Draco is unable to muster a response, his throat tightening. She smiles, then kneels as Scorpius comes barreling back toward them. “Sugar plum! What did Daddy say about running?”

*****

Draco can trace the path of the Hogwarts Express in his mind, weaving its way through the hills and valleys of the countryside. Five years away make no difference: the rumble of the snack trolley, the lightly stained plush seats, the whizzing scenery outside.

Scorpius is plastered to the window, watching the spindly trees and frost-dusted houses pass by. “I see a horse! Horse horse horse horse horse.”

“Do you like the train, Scor?”

“Yes!” Scorpius turns from the window and bounces onto Draco’s lap. “I want to see Hogwarts.”

Draco slicks down a tuft of messy hair on Scorpius’s forehead. “Almost there. Here, sit still for a minute.”

Scorpius sits up and turns back to the window, squirming in place but quiet as he presses his nose to the glass. Draco watches him fondly. It’ll be a drastic change from Wiltshire, but he’ll like the excitement of Hogwarts. He’ll be around other wizards and witches. He’ll be happier.

For that, Draco can handle an ex and a career change. A small price to pay.

The train begins to slow down and pull into the station. Draco stands up to take their trunks down, then pulls Scorpius over by his waist and picks him up. “Ready for an adventure?”

Scorpius beams up at him. “I saw another horse, Daddy!”

Draco grins. “You’re about to see something much more exciting.”

“Is it a cow?”

“Maybe not _that_ exciting. Come on.”

 

*

 

First they have a new home to move into. Draco’s rented a modest cottage in Hogsmeade. The garden is dead but promises rich flora in the spring. The house itself is quaint and old, with stained furniture and far too many doilies, but Scorpius examines every room with wonder. Draco has to bribe him outdoors again with the promise of Honeydukes.

Armed with pumpkin pasties against the January chill, they start down the path towards Hogwarts. As the towering castle materializes in the distance, Scorpius exclaims, “Wooooow!” Draco hadn’t found the words to describe its vastness, but whatever a four-year-old could picture was certain to underestimate the size.

Draco tugs Scorpius forward, only pausing as they reach the entrance. Once the waiting face had been Neville’s. Today it’s McGonagall, looking amused as she notices Scorpius’s dropped jaw. “Good morning.”

“Hello, Headmistress. What do you say, Scorpius?” But Scorpius shyly ducks behind Draco’s leg.

“I came to thank you again for your assistance. Are your accommodations sufficient?”

“They are.” Draco scoops Scorpius into his arms. “Is there time to give him a tour?”

“Of course. However, your first class is in two days. I hope you have familiarized yourself with the material.”

“I have, though I’m afraid my lack of teaching experience will show.”

A faint smile plays at her lips. “I would consult your colleagues for advice. Mine is patience and a firm hand. As a father, you must understand that.”

Draco looks down at Scorpius, whose face is now buried in his shoulder. “I do.”

“I’ll see you both at our return dinner tomorrow, then.” She walks off to catch Flitwick, who offers a kindly wink to Scorpius.

Draco adjusts his hold, shifting Scorpius up. “You’re popular, aren’t you? Let’s just see how long it is until it goes to your head.”

Scorpius only giggles and points to the doors to the Great Hall. “What’s that, Daddy?”

They spend the afternoon wandering through the castle, peeking out of windows to spot the Quidditch pitch or getting whisked in new directions by the moving staircases. Draco stresses the dangers of the Forbidden Forest and the lake, but otherwise it’s a leisurely stroll, Scorpius chirping in high spirits. Passing students greet Scorpius in delight; only a couple persuade a cautious wave from him.

Draco knows he’s avoiding the gardens. He reminds himself that Neville is his colleague now. Nevertheless, the sun is brushing the treetops when they finally wind their way outside. The grass crunches under their feet. Draco gestures around. “Not much to see here right now, Scor.”

Scorpius points at the greenhouses. “But what’s in there, Daddy?”

“Those are greenhouses. They stay warm so you can grow plants.”

“Can I see? Can I see? Can I see?”

Draco hesitates. “A quick look.”

Stepping inside transports him five years back. Foliage curls around him, green leaves stretching out in the humidity. Small flowers peek out in bursts of vivid color. The smell of earth wafts around them. A lifetime ago, he was in love here; he can admit that now.

“It’s hot!” Scorpius’s complaint startles him into to the present.

“We’re not staying. There are dangerous plants here, Scor, so never play in the greenhouses. Understood?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Just as they’re turning to go, the door to the storage room at the back opens. Out emerges a familiar face, but Neville is changed. He looks haggard and thin in his loose brown robes. Shadows hang under his eyes. When he glances up, his forehead knots, then smooths out. “Hello, Draco.”

Hesitantly, Draco pastes on a smile. “Hello, Neville. I’m giving Scorpius the grand tour of Hogwarts.”

“Remember me, Scorpius?” Scorpius frowns, silent. “That’s okay.” Neville offers Scorpius a grin, bringing some of the life back into his expression. Still, Draco is unable to stop staring as Neville turns to him. “You’re a professor now.”

“Just for the year. Neville, are you…” Draco trails off, unsure what to say.

Neville seems to deflate at the unasked question, but summons back his polite veneer. “If you need any help, just let me know.”

It’s a dismissal. “Of course. Thank you.” A lull falls, so Draco carries Scorpius to the exit. Even before they open the door, Draco feels cold.

 

*

 

It only takes a few spells to unpack, so Draco and Scorpius wear their comfiest sweaters and spend the next morning with _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. Scorpius reads it aloud, his small finger tracing the ridges of each word. They eat grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup, and Draco gives Scorpius his first Fizzing Whizbee, enjoying his son’s delight as he begins to hover off the ground.

In the evening, they bundle up and trudge up to the castle, hand in mittened hand. They arrive to a roaring clamor in the Great Hall. Scorpius shrinks at the noise, so Draco carries him to the front.

There’s one conspicuous absence at the professor’s table: Neville.

McGonagall gestures to a vacant seat to her right. “Draco. This is your spot now, though I presume you’ll be eating most of your meals at home with your son.”

Draco sits, pulling Scorpius into his lap. “That is correct.”

Flitwick is on their right. He seems delighted to see Scorpius and charms a small golden phoenix that dances through the air in a shower of gold sparks. Scorpius stares in fascination. Draco offers Flitwick a grateful nod, which Flitwick waves off, saying, “I’ve always liked children. They have such a fascination with the world!”

“Indeed.” Draco pauses, but Flitwick is now occupied with conjuring something else. He turns back to McGonagall and lowers his voice. “Is Professor Longbottom not joining us tonight?”

Her expression is grim. Draco’s heart sinks. “I am afraid that he had an emergency to attend to. However, he has owled to assure me that he will return tomorrow.”

“An emergency?”

She turns her stern gaze upon him, and he withers. “I do not believe it is my place to divulge such details on his behalf.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Emergency has too many meanings. A work emergency? A health emergency? It could be Neville’s mother or Augusta or Hannah. Draco thinks of Neville’s weary face again, heart sinking. But then McGonagall clears her throat and summons dinner, and his attention is fully occupied with convincing Scorpius to eat peas.

 

*

 

The dungeon is drearier than he remembered. The flagstones seem permanently damp. There are no windows, only candles glinting off floating jars of ingredients.

Draco’s first Potions class is with the first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins. They shuffle in, a few giving each other dirty looks. It brings back memories of his own. Still, a couple girls link arms, signaling their inter-House friendship.

He raps on the desk to signal for quiet. Thirty pairs of eyes unsettle his nerves, but he forges on. “My name is Professor Malfoy. Today, we will be reviewing your very first potion: the Cure for Boils. I have already distributed your ingredients, so pair up and begin.”

A Gryffindor boy raises his hand. “Are you the new Potions Master?”

“Yes.”

A Slytherin girl pipes up. “Are you _Draco_ Malfoy?”

“Please raise your hands when you have questions. I am.”

A Slytherin boy shyly lifts a few fingers. “Was the boy from yesterday your son?”

“He is. No more questions. Please begin brewing.”

The students exchange glances, then start counting out snake fangs and horned slugs. Draco thinks back to his own lesson in first year. He’d done perfectly, earning a compliment from Snape—paired with insults for the rest of the class. How strange to be in Snape’s position now, lecturing students.

Oh, and Neville botched it, giving himself a nasty case of boils. Then Snape had taken a point off Potter, which was hilarious at the time but makes sense in retrospect. Draco clears his throat. “Remember to take your potion off the heat before you add in the porcupine quills.”

A girl in the back raises her hand. “Professor, can you help us?”

“Yes. I’ll make this clear now: it’s better to ask questions than to send yourself to Madam Pomfrey.” He begins to circle through the students, making corrections before mistakes can spiral.

When he finally gets a chance to pause, he realizes that McGonagall is just inside the doorway, watching him teach. He nods at her, then returns to the front. Class is almost over. “Congratulations to those that created a usable potion. The rest of you need to execute this correctly before our next exam. I will be holding practice sessions for all students on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Class dismissed.”

The students shuffle out, whispering furiously. McGonagall walks over to Draco’s desk. “Not a bad start. However, your area of weakness seems to be empathy.”

“…I see.” In a manner of speaking. It’s not his strong suit.

“Learn your students’ names. Talk more about yourself. If they trust you, they might even attend one of those practice sessions.” Did she just wink? “Consider what made you work so hard in Potions during your school years.”

Draco says wryly, “I was fond of praise.”

“You also enjoyed the encouragement that Professor Snape gave you. Unfortunately, he tended to play favorites. I hope you can give that consideration to all your students.”

“It’s strange.” Draco glances around at the shadowy room, stone tiles glistening, echoing with the sound of bubbling cauldrons. He recalls Snape’s loping walk, his slow drawl, the crooked grin he offered when he was pleased. “To be in his place.”

McGonagall unexpectedly smiles, but it’s tinged with sorrow. “To move forward, we must trample over the past. As Albus would have liked to see me take charge, so Severus would be proud to have you succeed him.”

Draco’s mouth twists. “I’m not sure about that.”

She turns to face him seriously. “Nobody knew how difficult it is to change more than he did. Give him credit for that.” Then she casts a quick spell, lightening the room with more candles. “Better. I’ve never understood the taste of you Potions Masters, but personally, I like to be able to read my parchment.” She slips her wand back into her sleeve and leaves just as the next batch begins to file in.

Draco restrains a sigh. McGonagall has too much fun at his expense. Maybe that’s why she keeps asking him back.

 

*

 

He only has two classes today, but it’s too early to get Scorpius from the Hogsmeade day care. Instead, Draco requests the house-elves to bring a sandwich to the dungeons. Then he begins perusing the cabinets. They’re short on valerian, Shrivelfigs and rat spleens. He writes off an order for the last one, but the other two are in the greenhouses. That’s his job now: asking Neville for ingredients.

He considers writing a note, but brushes off the thought. He’s being childish. Draco makes his way to the greenhouse, then raps on the familiar office door.

Neville opens it enough to stick his head out, looking even more bone-tired than last time. “Draco.”

“I have requests. For the stockroom.”

“Next time you can owl a note, and I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”

“Oh. Then I’ll go. It’s not urgent.”

“You’re here now. Come in and write it down.”

Draco quickly scribbles down his requests on a scrap of parchment. Still, he can’t help himself. “McGonagall said you had an emergency.”

Neville gives him a long look, brow furrowed. The hollows under his eyes are stained purple from exhaustion. “I did.”

“Oh.” It’s mortifying, trying to be caring when Neville is completely uninterested in telling him. What right does he have to barge into Neville’s life? The last time they’d met, at Pansy’s wedding, Draco had been the one rejecting a friendship. “Have a good day.”

“It’s Gran,” Neville says, directing his gaze towards his desk. Draco freezes, taking a moment to process it. “She’s in hospital.”

“I’m sorry. Is it serious?”

“Could be. Last night, we thought she might…” He swallows. “She’s a tough one, though. Told the doctors she has another twenty years in her.”

“I believe it,” Draco says softly, trying to sound as sincere as he can.

Neville offers a weak grin. “I look that bad, huh?”

Draco nods. “Like the Hogwarts Express ran you over.”

“Yes, well. Rough few months.”

“If you need someone to talk to…”

“That’s kind of you.” It’s not an affirmative, though, and nothing in Neville’s eyes suggests that he’s interested. Draco knows his cue and exits, not looking at the spot by the foxgloves where they shared a last tryst.


	13. sweetbriar // a wound to heal

Unlike the other professors, Draco doesn’t spend most of his time in his office. He doesn’t attend dinners in the Hall or preside over detentions. He’d compare himself to a ghost, but Nearly Headless Nick spends considerably more time pestering students with unwanted advice.

Instead, Draco spends time with his son. After day care, they spend long afternoons together, alternating between the cottage and Hogwarts. Sometimes Scorpius sits in on Draco’s practice sessions, drawing pictures of centaurs as Draco darts between students’ cauldrons to salvage their potions. And on weekends, they take the train up to the Manor.

Snow dusts the gardens. A white peacock struts past. Mother nods, reaching out to fix Scorpius’s lopsided hat before he runs back to play with his grandfather. “Yes, I sent Augusta flowers last week. It’s her heart.”

Draco sighs. The cold metal of the bench presses into his back. “I should have sent something.”

“I put your name on the card.”

“Is she out of danger?”

“I’m not sure. Why don’t you visit?”

“What for? Neville and I…” He trails off, realizing that he used Neville’s first name. “I hardly know her.”

Mother frowns, then abruptly asks, “Isn’t it time you think about remarriage? I know that woman was a mistake, but you need someone to take care of you. You’re still not looking well.”

“I’m fine.”

“And you’d be giving your son a mother.”

“He _has_ one,” Draco says wearily. “I have no interest in being married again. I can raise him myself.”

“When we’re gone? You’ll be alone, Draco.”

“I’ll manage. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” His tone borders on rude, but he can’t help it; he’s in a mood.

Mother appraises him. There are lines on her face now, wrinkles on her brow.  She says with resignation, “You resent us.”

“I don’t.”

She leans her head on his shoulder, a rare gesture. “You accepted her to please us. You’ve always been a good son.”

“It’s past now.”

“From the moment you were born, I’ve only ever wanted your happiness.”

Draco replies stiffly, “I think you’ve had other priorities as well."

She exhales. “Yes. We do what we believe is best for you, and we can’t apologize for that. But if you know what makes you happy, you must do it.” She straightens up to look him in the eye. “No matter what we think.”

Draco freezes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“There may be things about you, Draco, that we may never understand. Including who you choose to love.” She clears her throat, turning to watch Scorpius chase the peacocks. “That’s fine. Parents were not meant to understand their children, only to try to protect them.”

“So if you—if I found a partner that you disapproved of…”

“At least there’d be someone for you to bring home.”

“And what if it was a man?” He thought it would be terrifying to admit, but there’s an odd detachment in saying the words aloud, as if they had emerged from someone else’s mouth.

Mother looks unsurprised, if uncomfortable. “If it’s someone who treats you and Scorpius well.”

The cold suddenly stings at Draco’s eyes. “And Father agrees?”

Scorpius squeals in delight as his grandfather lifts him onto his shoulders. Mother pats Draco’s hand gently. “To use your own words, dear, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

For the first time, he thinks: Maybe. Someday.

 

*

 

He’s been teaching for a couple weeks now. The students are warming up to him, asking about Scorpius after class and greeting him in the hallway. He feels a tremendous sense of accomplishment. Research isn’t remotely like teaching, and he’s had to spend long hours on lesson plans, trying to explain the science of potions in the simplest way he can.

There’s an hour until his next class, so he takes up an armchair by the staffroom fire. Binns died in one of these, but it’s not a thought he likes to dwell on. Instead he focuses on the lull of the flames, bright orange flickering with a crown of smoke wavering above.

He wakes up to hear a voice behind him. “Have you heard anything about Slughorn?” It’s Powell, one of the younger teachers, who’s taken over Transfiguration. Her bouncy Jamaican accent is unmistakable.  

“McGonagall got a postcard. I’m sure he’s doing just fine.” Draco was about to sit up, but pauses as he hears Neville’s voice. He’s not in the mood for that tension right now.

“The replacement is nice. I find it hard to believe he’s a Death Eater.” It takes a moment for Draco to register that they’re discussing him.

Neville replies shortly, “Was.”

“Was, yes.” He should make his presence known, but Draco has some bad Slytherin habits, and eavesdropping is hardly the worst of his crimes. He listens as Powell continues, “Madame Pomfrey said he was your year, but I don’t think you would have been friends.”

“Not in school, no.”

“And now?”

“Not anymore,” Neville says darkly. A kettle boils. Between the crackling of the fire, Draco hears water pouring.

Powell replies gingerly, “Are you mad at him?”

A pause. “Call it self-preservation.”

What in Morgana’s name does that mean? Draco clenches his jaw. He stands abruptly, making the other two teachers freeze. Wordlessly and without looking their way, he stalks past them and into the corridor.

 

*

 

Hell hath no fury like a Malfoy scorned.

That was true in the past, at least. He’s 30 now, and more than anything, Draco is tired of petty nonsense. He pushes aside his annoyance for the duration of class, focusing on explaining Confusing Draughts. A few students look confused themselves, so he walks them through the instructions step-by-step. The class flies by with few mishaps.  
  
When class ends, Neville is in the doorway, looking troubled. The students filter out past him, and he greets them with a tense smile. The last to leave, Draco coolly brushes past him.   
  
“Wait. 

Draco pauses. “Yes? I have to pick my son up from day care.”

“I owe you an apology. You overheard something that you weren’t supposed to.” The reluctance in Neville’s voice raises Draco’s hackles. He’d rather have no apology than a half-hearted one. 

“You don’t owe me anything, Longbottom. If you’ll excuse me.”

Neville massages the bridge of his nose. “Draco, please. I’m sorry.”

Draco fixes him with a steely look. “Professor Malfoy will do. And what exactly are you apologizing for? We cut ties a long time ago.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“What…?” Draco struggles for an answer. What did he expect from Neville anyway? “Professionalism, to start. Or if you’re not capable of that, at least tell me that you don’t want to see me.”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what’s the self-preservation?” A thought strikes him. “Did you think I came back to Hogwarts for you? I’m not a homewrecker. I know you have the Abbott girl.”

“You don’t—” Neville cuts himself off, unfinished. Draco steams and waits. “That’s not what I meant. You’re the one who cut ties with me.”

“Because I turned down a coffee at Pansy’s wedding? If you didn’t realize from my divorce being splashed in every garbage tabloid in the country, it was a bad time.”

“I couldn’t be sure it was just that.”

Draco does shoulder some of the blame, but he’s not in a generous mood today. “Convince yourself of whatever you want, then. I’m sure you have enough friends already.” He turns on his heel and leaves, letting the rage boil under his skin.

 

*

 

He’s prepping for class the next morning when a visitor stops by.

“I am sorry,” Neville blurts out. “Honestly.”  
  
Draco narrows his eyes, gloved hands covered in newt guts. At least his fury has calmed into a simmer. “I know you have the do-gooding soul of a Hufflepuff, but I’m not a charity case.”

“I mean it. I blamed you for cutting things off, but it was a two-way street.”

“Does it matter? I leave at the end of term anyway. You can safely ignore me.”

Neville hesitates. “We are colleagues, though. We could at least grab a pint and catch up.”

Draco’s still wary of reconciliation, but they do need to work together for the next few months. “I can’t tow my son along to the Three Broomsticks.”

“Right.”

“But you could come to dinner tonight. We live on Forsythe Drive, the first cottage on the left.”

Neville visibly relaxes. “That sounds nice.”

 “At seven?”

“Great. Then I’ll see you tonight.” Neville awkwardly nods and departs, leaving Draco to his work.

 

*

 

Neville is unsurprisingly late to dinner. The doorbell rings, so Draco wipes his hands on his apron and ushers in his guest. At least he’s arrived with a bottle of better-than-bargain rosé in hand. “Welcome to the cottage.” 

Unraveling his scarf, Neville offers a hesitant smile. “It’s lovely. And something smells incredible.”

“Enchiladas. Scor’s favorite.” As if on cue, Scorpius emerges with a toy train in hand. He eyes Neville shyly.  

Neville grins. “Nice train. Is that the Hogwarts Express?”

Scorpius shakes his head, blond hair falling into his eyes. “Trans-Siberian Railway. It’s the longest railroad in the world.”

“Is that so? Want to show me your trainset?"

Scorpius considers it before frowning. “Not yet. They’re not ready.” He scampers back into the living room.

Draco watches him go with a fond smile, then turns back to Neville. He still looks thin and scruffy, though his dark circles have lessened. “I never asked about Augusta.”

“She’s doing better. They’ve sent her home.” The relief on Neville’s face is palpable.

“Glad to hear it.”

“Uh, your parents?”

“They’re doing well. They miss Scorpius, but we go there on weekends. Here, sit. Scorpius ate already.” The dining table is large, but they take adjoining seats at one end. Draco summons two wineglasses and casts a spell to pour out the rosé and serve the enchiladas.

“What about Astoria?"

“He spends some breaks with her, but most of the year he’s with me.”

“I see.”

“We’re fine. A functional balance as co-parents.” Draco takes a bite of enchilada. “So? How have you been?”

Neville pauses with his fork already halfway to his mouth. “Um. Well, between Gran and Hannah…”

“Oh. Things not going well with her?”

Neville coughs once, putting his fork down. “I guess you didn’t hear. We split up half a year ago.”

“You…” Draco trails off before recovering. “That’s too bad. She seemed…nice.”

“She is. But commuting between the Leaky Cauldron and Hogwarts, and with our chaotic schedules, we hardly saw each other. Didn’t feel like a relationship anymore.”

“No. I see that.” Draco clears his throat, caught off guard. How had he not known? “Have you considered leaving?”

“Hogwarts? If I go, I’ll lose my research opportunities. And I like teaching, even when I’m knee-deep in papers to grade. No, this is inevitable.”

“Is it?” Draco frowns. “The world is huge and full of options. You could try something else, go somewhere new.”

Neville offers a rueful smile. “We can’t have everything we want. When you left, you made a choice. And you were right. There are more important things than romance.”

He could argue the point, but Neville’s right. Even now, it’s impossible to refute; after all, he would prioritize his son over anyone else. He tries for a joke instead. “Are you sure this isn’t a deflection? Because I’m going to assume that you’re romantically involved with a tree.”

Neville grins. Banter is easier territory. “Too bad the Whomping Willow is gone.”

There’s a sudden thrill of nostalgia, a spark returned. “Is that how your tastes have evolved? I should have known.”

With impeccable timing, Scorpius decides to poke his head into the kitchen. “Are you ready to see my train?”

Neville glances down at his half-eaten enchilada and untouched wine. Then he pushes his chair back. “Lead the way.”

Shyness vanished, Scorpius tugs on Neville’s hand and pulls him into the living room. Hiding his amused smile, Draco follows them, wineglass in hand.

 

*

 

“Get home safe,” Draco says, suppressing a shiver as he opens the door to the cold night air. It took a while to escape his son’s attention-seeking; only bedtime sent him packing. They could linger now that Scorpius is asleep, but Neville’s opted to go, and Draco doesn’t blame him.

Bundled up again, Neville steps outside. “I will. Thanks again for the food.”

“Of course. Thank you for putting up with Scorpius.”

“Not at all. He’s a cute kid.”

“You know what they say about apples and trees.” Draco nearly winks, but then realizes that this could be misconstrued as flirting. Not with his ex; he’s not that desperate.

Neville shuffles his feet on the snow-dusted cobblestones. “Right, well. Goodnight.”

Draco winces internally; he’s made things awkward. “Goodnight.” As Neville turns to go, Draco shuts the door, then leans against it and mutters to himself, “Merlin’s saggy pants.”

Well, their first proper conversation is over. The hurdle is behind him. Now he can focus on teaching and not worry about Neville again.


	14. laburnum // humility

A dark shadow looms over Scorpius’s sleeping form. It has red, hooded eyes and a soft voice like a knife. With a cruel grin, it points a wand down at his neck. “Avada Kedavra.”

Draco screams.

He wakes up with his mouth locked in a soundless cry, rigid. With quick breaths, he settles himself, trying to calm his whirling thoughts. Next to him, Scorpius slumbers peacefully, a blond tuft curling into his eyes. His pale hands are so small, his body so fragile, but he’s alive. He’s safe.

Draco watches him for a long hour as dawn creeps up on the world.

 

*

 

By the time his first class his over, he’s exhausted. It’s February now, and it’s been a couple weeks since he slept so badly. He drags himself into the staffroom, every cell in his body craving coffee.

Neville is in there. He takes one look at Draco and pours out a mug. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Draco downs it, focused on waking up. It takes a couple of minutes. They stand in silence, sipping quietly.

When he’s finished, Neville asks, “Teaching going well?”

“I like it, believe it or not. Though I didn’t realize how much of my life would be spent grading.”

Neville nods knowingly. “It hurts to assign essays. That’s a weekend gone.”

“We’re not even teaching History of Magic.” Draco glances around to make sure the staffroom is empty. “Not that Binns does anything but grade. ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead’ disproven.”

Neville raises a warning eyebrow, but can’t hold back a grin. “I’ll read the history of lower Wizengamot court procedures when I’m dead.”

“Merlin, he read that?”

“Told me all about it over dinner.”

“Another reason to skip the group meals.” Draco sets his mug down. Something familiar stirs when he talks to Neville like this, like embers in the kindling, and it hurts. He never lets himself linger. “See you later.”

“Enjoy class.”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” With a two-fingered wave, Draco sets off for the dungeons again, allowing himself an exhale of relief.

*

 

He thought he had a handle on teaching, but clearly that was just to make himself feel better. Draco gingerly knocks on the Herbology office door. When Neville opens it, he offers an apologetic grimace. “Sorry. I know I’m supposed to send a note, but I just realized that I’m low on Sneezewort for my next class. Do you have any dried leaves in stock?”

Unexpectedly, someone materializes behind Neville. “Is that Draco?”

“Lovegood,” he says, taken aback. Mostly from the taxidermied bird on her hat, the crystal-studded binoculars, and the all-khaki explorer’s outfit.

“You teach now,” she replies. “That’s wonderful. You can teach the students about the uses of a Crumpled Snorkack horn. I brought an outline for you.” She holds out a stuffed manila envelope.

He gingerly takes it, recalling their last meeting. He’d rather accept it without question than endure anything like her Thestrals pitch. He wishes Neville found this funny so Draco could glare at him, but Neville merely runs a hand through his fledgling beard. Draco prompts, “The Sneezewort?”

“Oh. Right. I’ll go fetch it.” Neville disappears.

Luna seats herself on Neville’s desk, nearly knocking over a jar of Gillyweed. “I admit that I was disappointed. Still, I understand your choice. It was a bit silly, but I find that most people are silly when it comes to these things.”

Draco doesn’t begin to fathom what she’s saying, but he doesn’t care enough to figure it out. “Right.”

“It’s another chance, though, isn’t it? For you and Neville.”

 _“What?_ ”

“Oh, don’t worry. He didn’t have to tell me. Neither of you are very subtle.” There’s an amused glint in her silvery eyes. “You’re not being very subtle now.”

Draco instinctively folds his arms. He hates how easily she throws him off-balance, but he’s determined not to react. “You’re mistaken. It was over years ago. We’ve moved on.”

She taps the stuffed bird on her hat. It wobbles precariously, unseeing eyes bobbing. “Nothing really ends, does it?”

Before he can muster a response, Neville pops back in, parcel in hand. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

“And you don’t have to send a note. You’re welcome to stop by anytime.”

Draco searches Neville’s face, trying to see if he’s being truthful or polite. Recalling Luna’s words, he wrenches his gaze away. “I’ll see you next time, then.” As he turns to shut the door behind him, he makes eye contact with Luna again. She returns an unblinking stare.

Morgana, she gives him the creeps.

*

 

The next day, McGonagall stops him in the hallway near the Great Hall. “There will be a birthday party for Madame Pomfrey at the Three Broomsticks on Friday. You are invited.”

“I doubt I would be welcome.” Legally, he was charged for putting Madam Rosmerta under the Imperius Curse, though his punishment was lax. She no longer bartends, but he’s taking no chances. Nor does he want to see her; the thrill of complete power is a feeling he vividly remembers—and despises.

McGonagall replies smoothly, “Madam Rosmerta is traveling to Budapest as we speak. She won’t be back for some days.”

“Ah.” He clears his throat. “Nevertheless, I have Scorpius at home.”

“I understand your concern for your son, but I hope an evening away from home is not a taxing request. If it would help, I can recommend a responsible Prefect to watch Scorpius for a few hours.”

He’s being chastised in so many words. She’s right; it’s more about his fears than real danger. “I would appreciate that.”

“Excellent. And Draco?”

“Yes?”

There’s a familiar glint in her eyes. “Staff parties tend to get…rowdy, shall we say? If you could brew some hangover potion, that would be useful. Just in case.”

Despite himself, his mouth slants upwards. This he can’t wait to see.

 

*

 

Madame Pomfrey’s birthday party exceeds expectations.

They’re in a private room at the back of the Three Broomsticks. Long ago, he discovered the secret meetings during reconnaissance on Dumbledore. He remembers guiding Madam Rosmerta through them, a pale imitation of herself. Under her lively façade, she was devoid of spirit, an empty shell he was piloting. Even the memory is horrifying. Afterwards he would shudder in disgust, frantically washing his face as if to scrub away his guilt.

Tonight, the absurdity is less serious and more light-hearted.

Flitwick is singing a drinking song, perched on a table with a lampshade on his head. Pince has discarded her cardigan and is wiggling to classic goblin rock. Sinistra and McGonagall are loudly debating the finer points of a story involving a vampire, a bag of diamonds, and a kazoo. It’s unclear if it’s truth or fiction. The room is in chaos. The bartender smirks as she wipes down the counter.

Neville is in a doomed drinking contest with Hagrid. Aware of Hagrid’s deep dislike for him—and that the tipsy half-giant could snap him like a twig—Draco avoids that side of the room. He sits with Powell instead, content to nurse a Firewhisky and enjoy the spectacle. But Neville stumbles over, dropping into to the seat next to him.

Draco can’t help a grin. “Poor show.” It's a tentative approach at friendship, but probably one long overdue.

Neville groans in reply, dropping into the chair. “I fought the, uh, the good fight.”

“Noble. One might even say heroic.”

“Shush. None.” He stabs the air with his finger, searching for his words. “None of that. You’ve had nothing.”

Powell nods emphatically. “Draco has only had two! Two! He's a bore. And why? He has a babysitter, no class tomorrow, and hangover potion.”

Draco shrugs. He makes poor decisions when he’s drunk, and honestly, he’s not interested in saying whatever he would say to Neville. But Scorpius makes a great excuse.

Neville frowns at him, but his eyes sparkle. “A bore indeed.”

Draco shakes his head. “Miriam is only watching him until midnight. I’m not staying long. But it has been spectacular.” He gestures to Pince’s frantic hip-shaking.

Powell sighs. “Neville will drink with me. I’ll get more Firewhisky.” She makes her way through the frenzy to the bar.

Draco side-eyes Neville, who looks a bit too gone. He recalls Luna’s words about a second chance. This is dangerous territory for them. “I’m going out for fresh air.” Shrugging on his jacket, he steps outside into the cool night air.

Blissful quiet. The bustle of Hogsmeade has mostly stilled, with only a murmur of far-off voices. He used to smoke in these moments, but he quit for Scorpius’s sake. Still, a cigarette would be nice.

A loud crashing sound comes from the door. Draco turns to see Neville wincing and rubbing the arm that must have smashed into the doorframe. Neville points an accusing finger at him. “Tell me something.”

Draco sighs. “Neville, you’re smashed.”

“I know. I _know._ But tell me. Did you have to come back?”

Draco swallows and says dryly, “Nobody twisted my arm, if that’s your question.”

Neville frowns down at him. “You wanted to leave, so why would you come here again?” He sways, unsteady on his feet.

Draco shouldn’t engage. But he says automatically, “It’s a good place for my son.”

“For your son.” Neville stumbles once, and Draco catches his elbow and leads him to a bench. Neville sits and says mournfully, “Of course.”

“Look, I’ll get you some water.”

“Wait.” Neville takes a deep breath. He’s not quite upright, leaning on the bench and staring up at Draco with an unreadable expression. “Was it worth it?”

Draco sighs. “Scorpius is worth it. That’s enough. Neville, please say you weren’t hung up on me for all this time.”

Neville snorts. “That’s, that’s very Draco of you, but no. I really, really thought Hannah was the one.” Tears suddenly swim in his eyes, poised for descent. “If Gran dies, I’ll be alone. Except Mum, but it’s not the same. I’ll be on my own.”

Morgana’s thrice-cursed undergarments. He knows that this is an irrational, babbling version of Neville, but he can’t help it. He’s been in love with the memory of Neville for years. Draco sits and puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not alone.”

Neville firmly removes Draco’s hand and drops it. “Who do I have? You? Where were you when Dad died? You sent a bloody bouquet. You can’t just—just pretend that you’re still a part of my life.”

Draco clenches his hand, stung. “Neville, I’m sorry. I wasn’t in the country. I didn’t know until it was too late.”

“Really?” Neville’s mouth twists. “And you would have come if you knew?”

Draco feels a clench of guilt in his stomach. He says nothing.

Neville gets to his feet, still wobbly. “You won’t stay, and I won’t expect you to. Lesson learned. We’ll just play nice until you go. Right?” He sticks out a hand.

Draco stares at the hand. What choice does he have? He reluctantly shakes it, feeling the knot in his stomach coil on itself. Then he says, “Let’s get you water,” and steers Neville back inside.

 

*

 

He dreams of a wedding. High ceilings, white marble, Draco standing at the end of a long aisle. He frowns. Is this his wedding? He turns to the pew to see Astoria, curled around Estefania’s arm and smirking.

“Aren’t you the bride?”

She laughs and points to the altar. “Silly boy. Look over there.”

He’s about to face forward, but then a door opens behind him. A swarm of bats floods the room. The guests are screaming and panicking around him. He wants to move, to find his bride, to flee, but instead he stands in place, frozen to the spot.

 

*

 

The next day, he enters the library with materials for lesson planning. Pince clears her throat when she sees him and fixes him with an especially stern glare, as if to say, _Don’t you dare tell a soul._ He’s not sure who would believe him if he tried.

A few students stop him to ask about their essay on the fundamentals of potioneering. He offers a couple corrections, then ventures into the quieter recesses in search of a free table. In passing, he notices a familiar head of brown hair bent over a pile of parchment. He recalls Neville’s words from last night and feels ill at ease, as if he’s been caught lying.

But what was the lie?

He passes by, choosing a table further back and with a row of shelves between them. Peace, finally. Hunching over, he proceeds to write out learning objectives until someone taps his shoulder. When he turns, expecting more students, it’s Neville. “Draco.”

“Yes?” Somehow the discomfort is magnified now that a worried Neville is standing in front of him. Worried over Draco. Kind, handsome, wonderful Neville who he left in the dust. Neville who deserves the world over for his goodness.

He was in love with Neville. He _is_ in love with Neville, because he’s selfish beyond belief.

Without invitation, Neville takes the chair next to him and runs a hand through his hair. The gesture is attractive enough that Draco wants to curl up under the table and bury his face in his hands. His voice is low. “Did I mess things up again?”

It takes Draco a moment to find his voice after being gobsmacked by the unwanted revelation. “No. We’re fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Neville, I appreciate the groveling first thing in the morning, but you were right. I’m selfish. High time you figured it out.” He’s trying for ironic, but from Neville’s expression, he’s probably closer to wounded. Shit.

“You’re not selfish.” Draco raises both eyebrows, so Neville corrects himself. “Or. Not like you think you are. You’re a great father, and son.”

Draco shrugs. “Trying to correct some family mistakes.”

“And you’ve tried to be my friend, but I…I haven’t been in the best place. It’s easier to blame you than face myself.” Neville looks penitent, folding his hands together.

Draco wants to smack him for it. “Stop. Stop it. Be angry at me and don’t take it back. You can try and make it your fault, but your father passed away and I didn’t reach out because I’m thoughtless and self-absorbed.”

Neville practically flinches. “Okay. Okay, I’m not sorry. But I don’t want to mess things up.”

“And I _am_ sorry. Honestly.” He swallows, unable to meet Neville’s eye anymore. “The record will show that I messed things up, not you. Let me have the regrets.”

“Regrets?”

He’s not jumping into that boiling cauldron. Draco plasters on a sardonic grin. “A lifetime’s worth. Including waiting so long to start this lesson plan. When’s your class?”

“Oh.” Neville glances at the clock. “Now. And I need to return the magical fungi essays.” He hurriedly scoops up his papers, nearly tripping over a table leg.

Despite the wave of emotions, Draco has to restrain a genuine laugh. “Then have a good day, Neville.”

Neville pauses in his haste to meet Draco’s gaze. Draco wonders if his heart will stop if it’s too overwhelmed. “You too.”

 

*

 

He can’t be in love with Neville. He can be angry at Neville, happy for him, frustrated with him, even indifferent to him. Those are all tolerable states of being. This one is self-flagellation, metaphorically.

Draco has let go of so many regrets. He’s accepted his Death Eater past and become a new man. He’s forged a good relationship with Astoria. He even has learned to release his parenting mistakes and just do the best he can for Scorpius. If he’s mature now, if he has three decades of wisdom and experience, why can’t he let go of Neville? He’s seen the difference between the lover of the past and the awkward ex of the present. He’s moved towards closure. These feelings should be collecting dust in an attic in his brain.

The problem, Draco begins to see, is that he’s falling for the current Neville all over. He has early wrinkles and a paunch-to-be. He’s more subdued now, weighed down by his personal pity party. (Not that Draco doesn’t sympathize with his grief.) He’s as unbearably good-hearted, surprisingly witty, and obsessed with Herbology as he ever was.

How could he not have regrets?

 

*

 

Draco begins to take off Friday nights as tavern night. He trusts Miriam; she’s patient and kind, she studies early magical education, and she knows how to get Scorpius to sleep at his bedtime.

He stays out late with Flitwick and Madame Pomfrey, steering the conversation to the juiciest gossip from years of Hogwarts. By the end of the night, he has unintentionally accumulated some blackmail on three prominent Ministry officials, a famous Auror, and the heiress who bought the Swarovski diamond cauldron last year.

Thank Merlin he’s a reformed Malfoy.

He hums Ella Fitzgerald to himself on the way home, a tribute to the most talented witch of her time. The stars twinkle above him in a spotless, clear sky. It's been a while since he felt this relaxed.

The front door of his house is open.

Heart nearly seizing in his panic, he breaks into a sprint. Just inside the threshold, Miriam is lying on the floor, arms splayed. He kneels next to her. She’s been Stupefied and possibly injured. Her wand has been snapped, its black core dissolving. Draco shakes her. “Miriam! Miriam, wake up!” But there’s no reaction.

Whipping out his wand, he begins to desperately tear through the rooms in his house. “Scorpius? Scorpius! Scor, where are you? Scorpius?” There’s no answer. Thank Merlin, thank Morgana, there is no body waiting for him. Nothing’s been rifled through. He wishes he could wring answers out of the walls, but there are no portraits. The rooms sit intact, leading him towards an increasingly petrifying conclusion. He slams his fist into a wall and swears, summoning up rage to stifle his terror.

_Who took his son?_


	15. asphodel // regrets

Draco knows fear. He lived through years of paralyzing terror, trickling out of his mind’s dark corners into a flood. Nothing has ever matched this.

Still, he survived a war, and the first lesson was smothering his emotions. He can’t afford to lose any time. The worst may have already happened.

Bloody knife of Salazar, he can’t think about that.

He rushes to his fireplace, tossing a handful of Floo powder in. From the green haze emerges McGonagall’s face. “Draco.”

“Scorpius is missing. Miriam has been Stupefied. No signs of struggle or robbery. I think he’s…” He takes a steadying breath. “I think he’s been kidnapped.”

She frowns. “Wait there. I’m coming.” Her image disappears.

He kneels next to Miriam, half-crazed with worry. Images of Scorpius in pain, dead, whirl in front of him. It takes all his determination not to break down crying. The minutes fly by. Miriam stirs, and he helps her to the couch, soothingly dismissing her apologetic tears.

Finally, a knock. Grave-faced professors crowd into his parlor: McGonagall, Flitwick, Neville, Hooch, Powell, Pomfrey, even Hagrid. Pomfrey immediately heads to Miriam in the living room. McGonagall steps forward. “You’re unhurt?” He nods, getting to his feet. “We’ll question the villagers. See if anyone’s spotted him.”

Draco tries to channel anger, anything that will grant him self-control, but he’s shaking so badly that he can hardly hold his wand. “He’s blond, he’ll be four next week, and...” He trails off. “You know him. Let’s go.”

McGonagall shakes her head. “Draco, you need to stay here.”

He can’t help raising his voice. “My _son_ is out there. I’m not waiting in my bloody house!” Powell winces and Hooch clicks her tongue, but frankly, he couldn’t give a shit.

McGonagall replies sternly, “We need to contact you as soon as there is news. I know this is difficult, but this is where you’re most useful.”

He balls up his fists, unable to stifle the frustration in his voice. “Fine. Go already.”

The professors quickly file out. McGonagall’s silhouette shrinks down, then disappears into the bushes. Neville lingers for a moment, reaching out to put a hand on Draco’s shoulder. His eyes brim with concern. “He’s fine, okay? We’ll find him.”

Draco meets his gaze, trying to summon up his courage. “You’re right.”

Neville gives his shoulder a squeeze, then sets off into the night. Draco is left alone, the silent house conjuring up every dark thought imaginable.

 

*

 

Last summer they had gone to a lake. The sun darted in and out of the clouds as Scorpius traversed the beach in search of the best shells. “Daddy! Look at this!” He came running. In his hand was a tiger-striped, whorled shell.

Draco picked it up carefully and peered inside. “Better put this back, Scor. There’s someone in here.” Kneeling down, he angled it so Scorpius could see the snail’s soft body.

Scorpius gasped. “Who is it?”

“It’s a snail. She lives in here.”

“Is it her house?”

“Mmhmm. Now let’s put her back.” He took Scorpius’s hand and led him to the edge of the waves, then placed the snail in his palm. Scorpius carefully placed it down, allowing a wave to swallow it whole. “What do you like better, her house or our house? Want to move in?”

“Our house, Daddy!” Scorpius frowned up at him. “I want to stay with you.”

Draco felt a tug in his chest. He lifted his son up and smoothed his wind-tousled hair. Before them, the dark blue expanse churned, vast and untethered. “Don’t worry, Scor. You’ll always stay with me.”

 

*

 

His train of thought is interrupted as the door bursts open. It’s Hooch and Neville, both steely-eyed with determination. Hooch barks, “He was seen on Hogwarts grounds with a woman claiming to be his aunt. Brown hair, tall. Scorpius was uninjured. Didn’t seem like she was using force. Heading towards the castle.”

Neville grimaces. “It’s not curfew yet. Anyone who avoids the Prefects and Filch can get in.”

At least it’s not the Forbidden Forest. Draco fumbles for his wand. “How long ago?”

“Unclear. No more than half an hour.”

Neville clears his throat. “We’ll go. Madam Hooch, can you tell the others?”

She nods. “Hurry.”

Neville is the first out the door. “I know the fastest way into Hogwarts.” They dash down the dark streets, startling the passerby. Neville flings open the door of the Hog’s Head and hurtles up the stairs; Draco barely has time to register the stares and furious whispers as he follows.  

The second floor is empty, scattered chairs and half-filled pints indicating that it’s been cleared. Above the fireplace a painting has swung open, revealing a dark passage. A man with a gray beard gruffly nods at them. “Figured you’d be back soon.”

“Thanks, Aberforth.” Neville scrapes a chair across the floor and hoists himself into the passage. Draco nods at the man, trying to figure out why the name rings a bell, before letting Neville haul him up. Both casting _Lumos,_ they set off, their lights casting wavering shadows on the walls.

“Where does this lead?”

“Room of Requirement, if it’s not in use.” The rhythm of their quick steps echoes around them. “We’ll use the Prefects to coordinate a search.”

“Okay.”

“I know this is difficult,” Neville says gently, and Draco frowns. He doesn’t have the capacity to think about the situation right now. “But any idea who would take him, and why they’d go to Hogwarts?”

Draco huffs out a bitter laugh. “No. Never cataloged my critics.”

“Could be your parents or Astoria they’re trying to get to. Did you Floo them?” Draco shakes his head. He hasn’t had the presence of mind. “We’re almost there. You can do it when we arrive.”

They’re soon exiting the passage. The required room is tiny, with just a door leading into the main castle. They exit to find two Prefects, Jamila and Amir, waiting in the hall. “No news, sir.”

“I have news.” Neville strides over to them. “A brown-haired woman has taken Scorpius inside the castle. Contact the other Prefects and start a watch. If anyone finds her, report to me and _do not_ engage.”

The Prefects nod and take off running down the hallway. Draco clenches and unclenches his hands. “Now what?”

“More waiting.” Neville grimaces. “We’re next to Binn’s office if you want to Floo your family. I can wait outside if you like.”

“No. I don’t care. I mean—” Draco massages his temples. There’s no time for politeness. He marches over to office door, pounding on it. “Professor Binns! I need to Floo someone from your office.”

Binns’ ghostly form floats through the door with a mildly irritated noise. “I certainly cannot open it for you, but you may enter. Shall I ask the house-elves for tea?”

Draco marches straight through him to open the door, causing Binns to let out a startled gasp. He can practically hear Neville’s apologetic look as he says, “Sorry. Maybe next time.”

 

*

 

Another memory: Scorpius giggled, peering up at the sky. “You’re flying!”

Draco grinned. His broom was only hovering a few feet off the grounds of the Quidditch field. “That I am.” He lands and stoops to pick up the pint-sized Nimbus. “You want to try on yours?”

Scorpius shook his head. “I’m scared!”

“It’s not scary. Try it.”

“Uh-uh.” Scorpius clutches Draco’s leg. “I’m going to fall.”

“And if you fall,” Draco says, lifting Scorpius up by the armpits, “I’ll catch you!” He tosses Scorpius into the air, just above the reach of his hands, and a cool breeze brushes against his fingers.

Then Scorpius returns to his grip with a delighted scream. “Again! Again, Daddy!”

That was invincibility—to know that Scorpius was always in his grasp.

 

*

 

When the Prefects peer into the office, the Floo is still ongoing. His mother is in hysterical tears and his father wants to contact the Minister of Magic at once. Draco doubts that Granger can summon Aurors with the speed Father is picturing, and he’s too overwhelmed with his own pain to comfort anyone else. It’s a relief to end the call.

Neville shoots up from his slumped position on the armchair. “And?”

“Someone saw them near the stairs of the Astronomy Tower.”

Before Amir can say anything else, Draco is running. He can hear Neville’s footsteps dashing in pursuit through the wide stone corridors as they weave around bewildered students. At the base of the tower, Neville calls out, “Wait!” He’s panting, clutching his wand. “Could be dangerous. What if it’s a trap for you?”

“So? I have to go.”

“I know. Let me go first.” Draco frowns, about to protest, but Neville gives him a resolute stare. “Just in case.”

Mouth pressed in a thin line, Draco gestures at the staircase. Neville sets off, wand at the ready, cautious with his steps. They emerge at the top, a dizzying height, and Draco clutches the railing for a moment to steady himself. He hasn’t been here since the night of Dumbledore’s death, and in the darkness the memory is raw, an open wound. His eyes instinctively flit past the telescopes to the fatal spot. 

That’s when he sees a small silhouette stock-still on the ramparts, its back to them. Scorpius. A step away from dropping off the edge.

Instinctively he rushes forward, ignoring Neville’s cry of, “Wait! Draco!”

Suddenly his wand is flying from his hand. He turns back to see Neville disarmed as well, and then they’re hit with _Impedimenta._ Draco collapses onto the ground. The face above him casts _Lumos,_ revealing a cruel smirk.

Vector.

She leans down towards Draco’s face. “They all said you changed. You!” She laughs. He keeps his eyes trained on her, only occasionally letting them flicker around at his surroundings. Neville is also frozen, his wand rolling away from him. Scorpius is bizarrely still on his precarious perch. Something’s wrong. “The man who watched them torture and murder. You watched Dumbledore die here, didn’t you?”

Engage her. His words are slow, his fingers barely able to twitch. “Sh-shouldn’t you be in the loony bin?”

She smiles coldly. “I’m not the one who’s crazy. They’re the ones letting killers walk the streets. And this boy, he’ll be you one day, won’t he? What I’m doing is a service.”

Draco’s heart plummets. “What have—what have you done to him?”

“Nothing you haven’t done. Turn, Scorpius.” Scorpius turns to face them, and she holds the light towards him. His lip is split, a red gash across it. His pale body is statuesque. Draco can see it in the dullness of his eyes, the void of emotion. He’s under the Imperius curse.

White-hot rage flames inside Draco. “ _Fuck_ you. He’s just a child.” To use an Unforgivable on a child as young and impressionable as Scorpius is…he doesn’t have the words. He feels sick to his stomach.

“Have you ever felt it? Watching someone hurting your loved ones, leaving you powerless?” Vector taps her wand on Draco’s cheek, gleeful. “I want you to understand.”

No. No, no, no. “Not my son. Don’t you _dare_ hurt him.” If his actions cost his son’s life, he won’t be able to live. Scorpius doesn’t deserve his penance. He’s so good, so angelic. He’s nothing like his father.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Neville shifting towards his wand. The jinx is wearing off. If he can only hold out for another minute. “What do you want from me?”

“Isn’t the answer simple?” She gets to her feet, towering above him, and he is reminded of a pair of snakelike eyes, a terrible whisper. Her wand points down at his throat. “Should it be you instead? But that’s not how a Death Eater would do it, right? First you have to suffer.”

Please. Please. Not Scorpius.

To his right, Neville’s furious voice rumbles, “Incarcerous!”

Thick cords rope around her wrists, but Vector blasts them away with a shriek. “Confringo!” Then she turns on Neville. “Expulso!”

Neville deftly blocks it, but winces as his upper arm is hit. She’s good. He tries for a body-bind, which fails, and she retaliates with a Cruciatus curse that misses him. Hexes whiz back and forth. Hope, infinitesimal as it may be, returns. Draco doesn’t know where his wand is, but his feeling is returning, and he summons all the strength he has as he casts wandless: “Deprimo!”

Vector’s eyes widen as the floor beneath her blasts open, crumbling stone falling out from under her feet. There’s a piercing scream as she falls through the hole and onto the stairs below. Her body crumples. Neville leaps back, a look of horror on his face, but Draco has no remorse in him. He turns desperately towards the edge.

The light is back in Scorpius’s eyes. He meets Draco’s gaze for a second, stumbling back and crying in fright, “Daddy!”

Then he topples off the edge.

Without thinking, Draco runs and leaps after his son, hurtling down. The wind rushes past him, billowing out his clothes. The ground below him is a rapidly approaching blur, but he focuses on Scorpius, streamlines his body until he can seize him by the arm. He pulls him close, clutching him to his chest. It’s too late to summon a broom. He has no wand. He tries to cast _Wingardium Leviosa_ on himself, but he’s still falling, a plummet towards the unforgiving ground, his son screaming in his arms. Maybe this was inevitable. If only…

They jolt to a painful halt, just feet above the ground. Below them, McGonagall and Flitwick are pointing wands up, suspending them in midair.

Draco finally allows himself to sob, smoothing down his son’s hair to calm his terrified wailing.

 

*

 

Madame Pomfrey’s expression is grim. “She’ll survive. Plenty of broken bones, though.” Vector’s been moved to the infirmary, but her wand has been confiscated and she’s in McGonagall’s custody until the Aurors arrive. The other professors have been ordered to calm the students and restore order to the school.

McGonagall’s mouth flattens into a line. “Good.”

Draco clutches his son, trying to calm the volcano boiling inside him. “Someone tell me how that woman was released.”

“That’s an answer I also want, and I intend to get it.” McGonagall sighs. “Poppy, can you diagnose Scorpius?”

Pomfrey shakes her head. “I have more experience with Unforgivables than a school nurse should, but he’s so young. The damage that an Imperius could cause…it’s hard to say. I’m afraid he’ll have to go to St. Mungo’s.”

Draco looks down at Scorpius’s tear-stained cheeks and tired eyes, terror seizing him. Now that his adrenaline is gone, he’s not strong enough for this. His whole body is exhausted. At any moment, his legs may give out on him. “Now. This can’t wait.”

“You’ll have to wait until the Aurors have finished with their questions, I’m afraid.” McGonagall lays a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Draco. Truly.”

“You’re not alone.” Wincing, Draco bites back the rest of his spiteful reaction. Morgana, this woman saved his life less than an hour ago. He shifts his hold on Scorpius, who’s falling asleep, and walks into the hallway. He needs to cool down.

He feels eyes on him and turns around. Neville is standing there, eyes full of emotion. “Thank Merlin.”

Draco stares at him, dumbfounded. What words are there? What can he possibly say? “Thank you. Neville, thank you.” He trails off, unable to put feelings into words, just letting his eyes trace Neville’s face.

Neville approaches closer, looking down at Scorpius. “How is he?”

“I don’t know.” Draco’s voice catches. “That bit—that woman, she might have…she cursed him. They won’t let me go to Mungo’s until the Aurors take our statements. If Scorpius has damage…if he’s hurt because of me…” He can feel his face crumple.

“Not because of you.” Neville’s voice is firm, reassuring. “He’ll be fine, Draco.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do. Trust me, okay? Just have courage.”

He can’t, but Morgana, these are the words he needed to hear. He tries to believe it. “Such a bloody Gryffindor,” he mutters. “Hero again.”

Neville smiles, and it reaches his eyes. “You saved him. This time we can share the title.”

“No, thanks,” he grumbles. Someone taps him on the shoulder, and he turns to see an official Auror uniform. They’re here.

 

*

 

It’s five in the morning, and Draco is exhausted. St. Mungo’s is even bleaker without daylight. The healer has disappeared to verify the results of their tests. Scorpius is restless and unhappy, refusing to sit in his bed. Mother can’t stop fussing over him. Father reprimands every poor nurse in his path, scowling. Astoria is clutching Estefania’s hand, still reeling from the news.

They make accidental eye contact. She releases Estefania with a whisper, then sits next to him on the empty bed. “How are you?”

He feels hollow inside. “Fine.”

“Draco,” she says chidingly, and he returns an apologetic look. “Don’t blame yourself. Please.”

He sighs. “I know. I’m not.”

“Okay.” She takes his hand. Her voice is choked as she whispers. “He’s alive. He’s still alive.” She leans her head on his shoulder, and in turn he leans his on hers. She’s right.

The healer enters. They release hands and shoot to their feet. Draco trembles as he asks, “Well?”

The healer holds up a chart. “He’s fine. Nothing lasting.”

He's never been as grateful for his life as he is in this moment. They all laugh and cry and kiss Scorpius on the cheek. Scor glances between them in puzzlement and delight, joining in their affection. Even Estefania picks him up and dances around the room with him, and Draco feels nothing but joy.

Someone has to sign the paperwork, so he follows the healer into the hallway. There’s a person on the bench outside, leaning against the wall. It’s Neville, sporting dark circles and stained robes. His arm’s been bandaged.

Draco grins at him, feeling light enough to be woozy. “Nothing wrong.”

Neville stands up, smiling. “Really?”

“Really. You were right.”

"A rare occurrence."

"Took the words out of my mouth."

Then Neville’s arms are enveloping him, and he melts into the hug, and finally, finally, he feels safe again.


	16. honeysuckle // devotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will now be sporadic. Sorry for all the delays!

Decisions upon decisions need to be made. Until the extent of his trauma is clearer, Scorpius will stay at the Manor with his grandparents. They schedule another appointment at St. Mungo’s and cancel his Hogsmeade daycare. Estefania needs to Portkey back to Spain before her exhibition. A lawyer needs to be hired for the Vector trial.

Astoria takes a week off to be with her son. Draco worries about leaving his stubborn ex-wife and his protective mother together, but at least he won’t be in the crossfires for long. After two days of polite snarking and multiple earfuls of complaints, he almost doesn’t mind leaving his son for Hogwarts.

Almost. When Scorpius cries as he walks down the front steps, he wants to join in.

The train ride is depressingly quiet. He stares out the window, listless. The moment when he hugged Neville replays in his mind on loop, conjuring up dangerous thoughts about second chances.

 

*

 

The students come to class armed with questions and well-wishing candy. He side-steps the first and accepts the second. In a rare display of laxity, he picks an easy lesson; they finish early to dive into boxes of Chocolate Frogs and Every Flavor Jelly Beans. He even smiles at a joke. It apparently shocks enough students that McGonagall stops by after his second lesson.

“Are you sure you don’t want a few days off?”

He glances up from the potions textbook he was flipping through. “Do you have anyone to replace me?”

McGonagall walks over, shoes clacking, to glance down at his page: the history of the bezoar. “I’ve brewed a potion or two before.”

He knows it’s tangential, but he replies, “I can’t say my life flashed before my eyes on the way down. I didn’t think about anything but my son. But it gives you perspective. And I…” He clears his throat. “I think I’d miss my students.”

McGonagall’s eyes twinkle. “Be careful, Draco. That was dangerously close to sentiment.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” he mutters.

She folds her fingers together. “I know how difficult this would be, considering what your son has just been through, but we’d be happy to have you back.”

“For another year?”

“For good.” She seems to have anticipated his disbelieving stare. The corner of her mouth turns up. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

She turns on her heel and leaves him to his thoughts.

 

*

He should have expected the scene that Pansy would make. That night, she bangs on the cottage door until Draco swings it open. “Hello to you, too.”

She slips off her stylish peacoat and stilettos, tossing them at him. “Where’s Scorpius?”

Instinctively, he glances around at the empty cottage. The floors are bare, the toys neatly stacked in their cubbies. The tables are spotless. When did order and method come to represent loneliness? “He’s at the Manor. We didn’t want to keep him here. I’ll see him for his birthday party on Saturday.”

“Shit, Draco. Thank Morgana he’s safe.” She crosses her arms, appraising his dark circles. “But why in the name of _Salazar motherfucking Slytherin_ was I not informed earlier?”

The contrast between her posh attitude and her sailor’s mouth never fails to amaze him. He rolls his eyes, beckoning her into the kitchen to pour out a glass of wine. “I was occupied. In case you forgot, I nearly died, too. That involves a lot of paperwork.”

“Paperwork that’s more important than your best friend?” He raises his eyebrows at ‘best friend’, so she flips him the middle finger. “Piss off. You had a near-death experience. I’m allowed to get sentimental.”

His faint smile betrays him. “Next time, I’ll owl you faster.”

“Next time? The next time some bitch decides to kill you, you tell me first.” She twirls her wand with a flourish. “Let me hex her face off. Longbottom doesn’t need any more medals.”

Draco averts his gaze, tucking a loose strand behind his ear. “No, he doesn’t.”

Pansy leans forward, eyes alert like a hyena circling prey. “What was that? Did you just hair-tuck for Longbottom?”

“What?” His flush creeps up his neck. “No. Don’t be ridiculous.” He leads the way to the couch, hoping she isn’t reading his expression. 

“Is that right?” She gracefully seats herself next to him, sipping her wine with an approving nod. “Maybe you fell in love with him when he rescued you.”

“Hilarious.” Draco tries to get his face under control, but the churning mix of emotions conjured by Neville is hard to placate. He’s in a weird place. “He’s…it’s complicated.”

“What does _that_ mean?” She studies him; he feels like an ant under glass. He shifts positions on the couch. “Fine. I’m not prying. But you’re also stupid, so I recommend consulting me while you get the chance.”

She's not wrong, but he made a promise to Neville. No—no, Neville made a promise to him that they’d never discuss their relationship. But maybe Pansy will help by taking an ax to his fantasies.

He sighs. “There’s something I haven’t told you. Related to Longbottom. Or. Neville.” He swallows. 

Pansy stares at him for a long moment, then groans. “Him? The torch is for golden boy? Saves-kittens-from-trees Longbottom? Your type is so… _boring_.”

Draco rubs at his temples. “Can you not make this harder?”

“I’m just saying that there’s no accounting for taste.” She grins. “Men are so typical. If you’re telling me, he must be driving you up a wall.”

“If only,” he mutters.

She snorts. “Crude isn’t like you. Come on, wanker. A chat about feelings won’t kill you.”

“First, I’m getting myself wine, too.” He knows she saves her triumphant grin for when he leaves the room. She’s smart, after all.

It takes an hour to recount. He didn’t realize how much there was to say: the initial tension, the gardening, the moonflower research, the Halloween kiss, the dates, the offer from Astoria, the break-up, Pansy’s own wedding (“You know, this secret would have made a better gift than those serving bowls”), the return to Hogwarts, the fighting, the friendship, and finally, the kidnapping.

He keeps the hug to himself. He knows he’s reading too much into it, but some hopes are too precious to be quashed.

Pansy’s eyebrows have been steadily inching towards her hairline. “What a drama queen you are.” She sighs. “If you’re so bloody gone on him, have him, idiot.”

“It’s not—I can’t just fuck it up and then resume again.”

“Why not? As long as he’s into it. And believe me, you’re a nine and he’s a six on his best day.”

“Is not,” he mutters, but it makes Pansy’s smirk twice as bad. He glares at her. “Anyway, he might have lost his taste for broody Slytherins. I don't know if he even likes me.”

“So grow some bollocks and ask him.” She reaches over for the wine bottle and pours out another glass. “Really, Draco, you’re thirty. If you can’t let yourself be happy now, when are you planning to do it?”

He stares at her, gobsmacked, then grabs the bottle from her. “Okay, can we stop with the feelings now and get smashed instead?”

She clinks her glass against his. “Always.”

 

*

Vector’s in his nightmare. So is Scorpius’s death. It was expected, really.

 

*

 

He wakes up with a dry mouth. A bottle of water is within reach. Bless Pansy. He drinks it, then tightens the black cloth on his wrist and shuffles into the living room. It’s light out. Thankfully, he only has afternoon class today.

Pansy’s in one of his Magpies jerseys, which hangs off her. It’s a rarity to see her without make-up, scribbling in a ledger at the breakfast table. “Finally. Can you make me eggs? I already burned two.”

He winces at the sight of his poor stove and begins casting cleaning spells. He’s just cracking the last egg when the door rings.

Pansy stands. “I’ll get it.”

“Wearing that? Are you out for my reputation?”

“Have you seen me? This is going to salvage it, you dusty fossil.” She yawns as she walks into the next room. The front door creaks, and he hears a surprised, “Oh!”

“Who is it?” Draco calls, sliding the eggs onto a plate.

“It’s Longbottom!”

Draco nearly drops the pan on his foot. Grasping for his composure, he walks over to see Neville looking hesitant, saying, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just wanted to check on Draco and Scorpius since I haven’t seen them. But if you’re, ah, busy, I can leave…”

Pansy snorts. “I’m married, Longbottom. You were there. I’m just an overnight guest. Now, eat some breakfast.” She practically yanks him inside and shuts the door behind her before he can protest.

Draco offers an apologetic look, conscious that he’s in pajamas. He should have dressed. “You don’t have to, but you’d be welcome. To join us. A sorry reward for risking your life, though.”

Neville replies with a tentative smile, “Depends on the breakfast. Is Scorpius at daycare?”

“At the Manor. My parents won’t let him out of their sight, nor will Astoria, so I’ve been fired this week.” As Neville sits, Draco gets a pot of tea on and asks, “Coffee, Pansy?”

“I’m not hungry yet.” She winks at him from behind Neville, ignoring how pale Draco’s face gets. To be fair, it was already quite pale. “I’ll borrow your shower. Go on without me.” With that she disappears.

Neville shifts in his chair, tugging at the collar of his blue jumper. His cheeks are stained pink. He can't seem to keep his hands still. “I don’t know why I came. I just…you know, we haven’t had a chance to talk in all this.”

Draco slides a plate in front of him, then reaches back to tie his hair up with a ribbon. Composure, Draco. “About?”

Neville pauses with toast halfway to his mouth. “Well, how are you?”

Draco shrugs, placing the mugs of tea in front of them. “A bit shaken, but fine. It’s just—" He sighs. "You think you've outrun your past, and when you least expect it, it takes a swing and lands you on your arse.”

“Are you worried about Vector? She's going to Azkaban. There’s no way she’ll try anything again.” Neville sips, then winces as his tongue is scalded.

“It’s not that. Someday soon, I’ll have to explain who I was to my son. Who his grandparents were. What the Death Eaters believed in. I owe him that, but…” He sighs. “I don’t want him to think of me that way.”

Neville frowns, swallowing a bite. “Plenty of people who know your past and don’t see you that way. Me included.”

“Well, thank you. I do know that I've changed." He sips his tea, wishing he had brewed coffee after all. "I look back at the Draco from those days, even the Draco from five years ago, and I hardly recognize myself.”

“Hath evewythin..." Neville swallows a mouthful. "Has everything changed?” It’s an innocuous question, but the trepidation in Neville’s voice gives him away. Draco's eyes shoot up to meet Neville's, heart pounding.

He’s fumbling for an answer when Pansy walks in, stomach growling. “Starving! How are the eggs?”

“Uh, delicious.” Neville hurriedly scrapes the last ones from his plate and puts them away. Then he stands. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“Of course.” Draco gets to his feet and follows him to the door as Neville slips on his winter robes. “You should come again.”

Neville looks flustered, cheeks still rosy. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you at Hogwarts then.” He half-smiles, then braces himself as he steps into the cold for the return journey.

As soon as he closes the door, Pansy calls, “So you didn’t snog, then? He looked like he wanted to snog you, if you’re wondering.”

 

*

 

That night, he dreams of a rowboat on the lake. Neville’s doing the rowing, showing off the farmer’s tan on his strong biceps, his brown hair tinted with reddish glow in the sunlight. Draco trails his fingers in the water, watching the surface ripple. “Peaceful, isn’t it?”

Neville replies, but his voice is fuzzy. Draco can’t make out his words. He leans closer, but then the boat starts to rock precariously. He clutches the sides, reaching to take Neville’s hand.

The giant squid flings them up into the sky to a chorus of mermaid laughter, and he snaps awake, hoping that wasn't a sign.

 

*

 

Wednesday morning’s air is crisp and cold. The sun still sleeps below the horizon, but at this point, insomnia is normality. Draco bundles in thick robes and makes his way to Hogwarts.

The frost-tipped grass crunches beneath his feet. The air is eerily still, but it’s calming, as if he was suspended in some otherworld. As the weak first rays turn the sky white-yellow, he pauses to take in the magnificence of the castle, its sloping arches and pointed towers.

He’s exhausted and unsure of himself and worried, but he’s healthy and whole. He’s made the worst of mistakes and, still, he’s loved by so many people. He loves. He’s lonely, but he's content, which is miraculous and inexplicable.

He’s a coward, but he can change that.

Through the front doors, up the stairs, down the corridors past the library. Past his former office with a view over the greenhouses. Past Neville’s room. And down another set of stairs, winding around until he’s standing in the gardens, watching a pair of gentle hands plant a row of Wiggentree saplings.

He taps Neville on the shoulder. Neville turns back, eyes wide. “Merlin! You surprised me.”

Draco nods. “It’s been a long time since I helped here.”

“It has.” Neville glances around. “Do you want to help? There aren’t many left, but if you wouldn’t mind potting…” Neville summons another spade and hands it to Draco. They kneel next to each other, digging steadily into the soft brown earth.

Draco chides himself. Gryffindors don’t have a monopoly on bravery. He says quietly, “I told Pansy about us. Just this week.”

“Oh.” Neville pauses for a moment before reaching for a sapling.

“It was the first time I told anyone.”

He glances to the side and catches Neville swallowing. “I kept my promise. I’ve never mentioned it.”

“Well, if you wanted to…” Draco trails off. What is he saying? “I thought, even after the divorce, that I should focus only on raising my son. But it was selfish, which seems to be a running trend.” He can see Neville preparing to chide him and holds up a finger. “I was just scared that if I admitted I was gay, I’d lose it all. But maybe giving up on happiness is the foolish thing. Whether you do things the proper way or not, life turns out a mess anyway.”

Neville watches him quietly, gardening forgotten.

Draco can feel the flush suffusing his face, burning around his ears. “I was so happy with you. I wanted—I want—to have one of those excruciatingly dull lives where we read the paper and water the flowers and take the bloody dog on walks. I still want it with you. And I’d be bringing a son and family baggage and a litany of flaws and I don’t know if you’ve even forgiven me, but I'm suggesting that we give it another try.”

Neville is crimson, but he’s also frowning. The mixed signals give Draco a sinking feeling. “I don’t care about your baggage. I’d be happy to be part of Scorpius’s life, if you trust me. But...I need to know that you’re committed. That you want something serious.”

“I mean it. I’m all in.”

“You’d tell everyone about us. We wouldn’t be hiding it.”

“No.” Draco masks his nerves with a wry grin. “I regret not showing you off the first time.”

Neville blushes, but continues on resolutely. “And you’d stay? Or would you go back to research?”

“With a son to consider, I can’t promise anything for the long-term. But McGonagall offered me the post, and I think I’ll take it for now. I like it here.” He’s getting antsy, picking up the spade and twirling it between his hands. “But you might be part of that.”

“Am I?” Neville’s face finally clears, and his eyes are shining with delight. Draco feels his stomach do somersaults. “So we’re doing this again?”

“Out of the frying pan, back into the same frying pan.” Draco shifts closer, unable to tear his eyes away. 

“Does that make us well-done?” Neville grins and Draco fondly rolls his eyes. “What? That bad?”

“Why don’t we put your mouth to better use?” Draco reaches for him, and Merlin, even with the thicker stubble and the lined face and the softer stomach it’s still Neville, Neville’s scent of earthy florals and earl grey, Neville’s gardener hands, Neville’s sweetly tentative kiss. He pulls back only to study Neville’s face, running his fingers down the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d bite.”

“Are you kidding? Have you met yourself? I keep waiting to get pinched.”

Draco uses two fingers to pull on Neville’s cheek. “Does this help?”

“No,” says Neville, beaming. “Do you believe it?”

“Hardly. But according to Pansy, you look like you want to snog me. So that gave me some hope.”

Neville’s laugh is as warm and inviting as ever. “I hate to admit it, but she’s right,” Neville replies, leaning in for another kiss, and then another, then another.


	17. ivy // faithfulness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I moved countries and started a new job, which has led to a long delay. I can't promise a timeline, but I am working on this fic as much as possible and it will be finished. Thank you for sticking with our sappy lovebirds!

“This won’t last.”

Morning sunlight filters through the windows. The pillows and sheets are scattered around them. Draco is wrapped in Neville’s arms, his lover’s mouth pressing soft kisses along his shoulders. Against his nape, Neville murmurs, “You want to go through all that again?”

“What?” Draco shifts, the soft breath sending a shiver down his spine.

“I told you. If you’re in for the long haul…” Neville pauses to trace a finger down Draco’s side, huffing out a laugh as Draco pinches his arm in retaliation. “So am I.”

“Not us, idiot. Our sex lives.” Draco leans back into Neville’s chest. “Once Scorpius returns, I can’t have you over for the night. He’s perceptive enough as is. And he loves reporting our home life to his teachers.”

“That’s fine,” Neville says cheerily. “We’ll have scandalous trysts at the office.”

“A greenhouse or a dungeon. You know how to treat a man well.”

“Mmm, you have a point. Then we’ll have to do without.”

“You won’t miss it?” Draco slyly runs a hand across Neville’s thigh.

“Oy.” Neville pulls his hand away with a chuckle. “Not saying that, but I’ll be happy as long as I get to see you.”

Draco preens a bit, smirking. “But what if I’m in this because my boyfriend is a good shag?”

“You like throwing boyfriend around, don’t you?” Neville looks pleased as punch, though, which is most of the incentive to keep doing it.

With what he hopes is an inscrutable shrug, Draco shifts on the bed. “We’re both teaching class in an hour. Breakfast?”

Neville’s stomach grumbles in response. With a sheepish laugh, he follows Draco to the kitchen.

 

*

 

Being in love is the best and worst feeling he’s ever had. He feels raw and exposed, like he’s been slipped Amortentia and everyone knows but him. Whenever he makes eye contact with Neville, his spine tingles. It’s disgusting.

In true Malfoy fashion, he overcompensates for his emotions with strictness. He assigns an extra essay on the uses of hellebore and adds another potion to the upcoming test. The final is less than three months away, after all.

Sitting in a hidden alcove in the courtyard, he overhears a couple students grumbling that Professor Malfoy “could use a good shag”. He smirks to himself, flipping to the next page in his lesson plan. Quite the opposite.

 

*

 

On Friday afternoon, Draco knocks on the door of the Herbology office. “Neville?”

Neville pokes his head out, glancing at the suitcase in Draco’s hand. “Going to the Manor already?”

“Classes are over, so I have to dash. If Mother and Astoria haven’t throttled each other yet, arranging a birthday party for Scorpius might be the final straw.”

“Sounds like a headache.”

“Well, I’ve had five owls full of _tart_ and _hard-headed_ and _Merlin’s left testicle_ , all of which have been burned in the staffroom fireplace.”

“Those poor owls are working hard.”

“I suppose so. What’s that beeping contraption that Muggles have? Cellcular something?”

Neville shrugs. “Don’t ask me. Everything Hermione tries to explain goes over my head.”

“Sounds horrid. Life would be a never-ending Floo call from my parents.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Neville replies with a wistful smile.

“Oh. Sorry.” Draco grimaces. “I’m a prat.”

“Don’t, please.” Neville reaches for his free hand, twining their fingers together. “I don’t want an apology on the subject every time. It just seems nice to be in your family, besides all the…” Neville clears his throat. “Baggage.”

“Well phrased. Augusta would be proud.”

“Speaking of parents and grandparents, when am I meeting yours?”

“We’ll see.”

Neville frowns. “We’ll see?”

“I’ll tell them soon, but it’s better if you’re not there. They won’t be happy.”

“I’ve gathered that,” Neville says gently. “I’m not asking for something unreasonable, am I? I don’t want to create a rift.”

“No. It'll take time, but they'll come around, for Scorpius if for nothing else.” Draco swallows. “My concerns mostly involve you. You’re generous, but my parents are hard to get along with. They’re proud, stubborn people and they don’t hide it. But I still want you to like them. I’m the unreasonable one.”

Neville pauses, his eyes tracing Draco’s face. “I can’t promise to like them, but I can promise to give them a chance.”

“That’s plenty.” Draco offers a small smile. “When are you telling Augusta?”

“Sunday lunch. Looks like we’re both in for it this weekend.”

“So we march to the Bastille.” Draco kisses his cheek. “If we survive, we’ll have to discuss my son, too. If you’re going to lose your nerve, do it now.”

Neville catches his wrist, pulling him in. Draco angles his face so Neville can kiss him, slow and deep, his hands running down Draco’s waist, before pulling back. “I’m a Gryffindor. Don’t worry about my courage.”

Draco wishes he had a suitably Slytherin retort, but he’s feeling weak at the knees. With a fond eyeroll, he picks up his suitcase and leaves for the Hogsmeade train station.

 

*

 

The party is a bizarre mishmash of his mother’s elegant sensibilities and his ex-wife’s determination to make it fun. Fancy china and teacakes, silly streamers and finger painting, and a gaggle of high-pitched monsters tearing through the mansion with parents in tow. If this is (most of) Scorpius’s class at Hogsmeade, a thousand blessings to those poor teachers.

When the last little terror drives off, Scorpius is drawing a picture for Astoria at the grand dining table, chattering about dragons. Draco pulls out the seat next to Astoria. “Can we talk?”

She glances up and nods. “Scorpius, go show your grandmother your dragons.”

“Okay!” He gives his parents an inquisitive look, but then takes off running. He’s had far too much sugar for one afternoon.

Astoria runs a hand through her glossy waves as Draco sits. “If it’s about your mother, I won’t hear it.”

“It’s about me seeing someone.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh.”

“It’s the man I broke it off with before…well, us.”

She tilts her head. “So in the end, we both went back?”

Draco wrestles with his face to keep his expression neutral. “I want him to be part of Scorpius’s life. Eventually. Not as a parent, but as my partner, like Estefania is for you.”

“Of course. It’s only fair. Though poor Neville is going to have an uphill battle with your parents.”

“Wha—you knew?”

“Of course. Who do you think you married?” Smirking, she stands up and pats his head. “You really never learned a thing about women." Then she saunters away, all too pleased with herself.

Ex-wives are the worst.

 

*

 

The next morning, Astoria takes Scorpius for a mother-son day at the zoo, leaving Draco with his parents. Mother is slathering a pat of butter on toast when Draco clears his throat. “I have something to tell you.”

Father grunts from behind his newspaper. Mother eyes Draco, catching his expression and frowning. “Lucius,” she snaps, sitting up a little straighter. Father sets the paper down, annoyed.

Fuck it. He won’t hesitate. “I’ve started seeing someone, and it’s serious. I want him to be a part of my—of our lives.”

There’s a long, heavy moment of silence. Father stares at him in bewilderment. It’s Mother who softly says, “Him.”

“Yes. Neville Longbottom.”

She tenses slightly; her self-control is too good for any other reaction. Father’s mouth flattens into a thin line, and Draco understands why. Neville had been fine as a colleague in the age of reconciliation, and a suitable means of climbing back up the ladder of society. But as a partner to his son—as a man, a Gryffindor, and the leader of Dumbledore’s Army—this is ridiculous. His voice is mocking. “What are you saying, Draco? The Longbottom boy?”

His panic pushes him to babble out an explanation. “I’m gay. I’ve always been gay. I broke it off with him to marry Astoria because I wanted you both to be happy, but I wasn’t happy. And I deserve to be with someone I love.”

Father’s jaw tightens, eyes blazing. “I understand if you wanted to…experiment when you were younger, but you’re a father. You want to subject Scorpius to this passion of yours, like your wife has?”

Before Draco can reply, Mother says in a steely voice, “I knew, Lucius. And I gave him my blessing.”

“You…” Father trails off, stunned. His face distorts into a familiar sneer. “You wanted this, then? Wanted your only son to take up with a _Longbottom_? To throw all our work to restore the Malfoy name into the dirt?”

Mother squares her shoulders. “I am not ashamed of my son. I didn’t know who the man was, but this is his choice, and it is a respectable match of two pureblood families.”

“Respectable? This is a betrayal of everything we worked for! This is what I’ll leave behind as my legacy?”

Draco snaps, “You did a fine job ruining your legacy yourself! And I salvaged it, so you should be thanking me!” Father recoils as if smacked, but Draco is too angry to regret it. He’s never said it before, but he’s right. “I have done everything for this family, and all I’m asking in return is that you accept me for who I am.”

“Accept you? There’s nothing to accept,” Father replies, lip curled. “You need to remember who you are.”

Draco is boiling with fury. “I’m not a child _asking_ for your permission, Father. Neville is going to be in my life and in Scorpius’s life. And if you want to be part of our lives, then make your peace with that.”

In all his years, even in the throes of his bitter days of alcoholism, he’s never stood up to Father so clearly. Father seethes in mute anger, but instead of replying, he slams open the door to the back gardens and stalks out of the room.

It hurts. Morgana, he thought he was an adult, but his shame is a raw, blistering wound. But Mother is reaching for him, wrapping her arms around him with a soothing murmur, and he breathes deeply into her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Hush,” she replies with tears in her eyes. “Just do what makes you happy.”

 

*

 

His parents lock themselves in the study later in a low-voiced but furious fight. It’s Astoria’s last day before she returns to Barcelona, though, so Draco tries to enjoy their day with Scorpius as a family, playing baby Quidditch and starting tickle fights. He’s exhausted and embroiled in his emotions, but it’s a good distraction.

While Astoria helps Scorpius to pack his things, Draco goes to his bedroom to Floo Neville. As soon as his face appears, Neville’s brow knits. “That bad?”

Shit. Blinking them back a sudden well of tears, he replies lightly, “As expected. The worst is over.”

Neville’s jaw sets. “I wish I was there.”

“It’s fine. Just tell me about yours. Is Augusta still there?”

“She’s around somewhere.” He disappears for a second, then reappears. “I think she’s scolding our neighbor. His goat likes to nip at her daylilies.”

“That’s not a euphemism, is it?”

“What?” Neville pulls a face. “Don’t joke about that.”

“Sorry. How’d it go?”

Neville huffs out a laugh. “Bit of a rocky start. Gran told me not to get carried away because you have a nice face.”

Draco is startled into a laugh. “She doesn’t mince words.”

“Apparently I’m no longer young enough for my lower half to do the thinking.”

“I’d have to agree,” Draco replies, grinning.

“After I convinced her I was serious, all she said was to bring you round for tea soon. I think it’s her way of giving us her blessing.” Neville beams.

Draco can’t help but smile in return. “Good. Now I just have to prepare my heart, and maybe an opening statement.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there."

“And just as scared as me?”

Neville winks. “More.” He contemplates Draco’s face, sobering. “Are you really okay?”

Draco leans back, fiddling with the collar of his jumper. He already wants to bury his face in Neville’s warm chest and inhale his scent. “Tired. It’s been a long day, and it’s only half over.”

“Are you leaving soon?”

“In a couple hours.”

“I could pick up some takeout and swing by tonight.”

Draco raises his eyebrows. “You can’t get enough of me, can you?”

Neville grins, and Draco’s heart responds with a flip. “Isn’t it mutual?”

“Possibly,” he replies, unable to hide a smile. “Depends on if you order drunken noodles.”

“Then I’d better get on that. See you soon.”

“Hurry,” he replies, but Draco lingers until Neville’s face dissolves into flames.

 

*

 

Draco leaves the house without speaking to Father. Mother squeezes his hand and says, “Promise me you won’t avoid him.”

He swallows. “I promise.”

Then he sets off with Astoria and Scorpius. They Portkey to London, then part ways at the King’s Cross station. They’ve warned Scorpius, so he’s already fussy, clutching Astoria’s hand and asking pitifully, “Mommy, do you have to go?”

“I do have to go. But you’ll see me soon.”

“Mommy, why can’t you stay?”

Draco lifts him up. “Because we’re going back to Hogwarts. You miss your teachers, right? And you miss your story books? And candy from Honeydukes? We can get you another Fizzing Whizbee.”

“He’s right, honey,” Astoria says. “Don’t worry. Mommy loves you.” She kisses him on the cheek, then turns to Draco. Her eyes brim with tears, and she quickly wipes them away. “Keep him safe.”

“I will.”

“See you soon!” With forced cheer, she waves goodbye and heads down to exit the platform.

It’s rare for Scorpius to act out. After all, he’s used to the parental separation. But maybe the trauma has brought back other anxieties, because he cries and screams like a banshee. Draco desperately tries to soothe him; he doesn’t have the heart to be stern. He lets his son writhe in his arms, his small body wracked with sobs, and stews in guilt. It’s only halfway back to Hogwarts that Scorpius finally tires out, falling asleep with his head on Draco’s lap.

He carries his son all the way home, shaking him awake just to feed him a sandwich and get him ready for bed. It’s early, but Scorpius is tuckered out. Neville arrives in the middle of toothbrush time, so Draco points him to the couch and heads back upstairs.

Finally, a bedtime story later, Scorpius is asleep. Draco enters the living room to find a table spread with spring rolls, red and green curries, jasmine rice, and drunken noodles. Neville doesn’t notice him, too busy ripping open a packet of duck sauce. Draco clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“Oh! Don’t apologize for your son. Just eat.” Neville hands him a plate piled high with food. “Hungry?”

Draco’s stomach rumbles in response. He shoots Neville a warning glare, then takes a careful bite out of his spring roll. Hunger can never trump good manners.

Neville grins. “Prim and proper for Thai?”

“It’s respectful.”

“A thouthan parthons,” Neville replies between a mouthful of noodles. He swallows. “How’s Scorpius?”

Draco sighs. “I don’t know. He’s anxious. I’m sure he’ll be up again soon looking for me.”

“It never ends, huh?”

“Never. I wish my family wasn’t so messy. It’s not going to be easy to walk into.”

“I don’t mind. It’s part of your life.”

Draco pauses, chewing on his noodles contemplatively. A thought strikes him, and he frowns up at his boyfriend. “Do you want kids of your own?”

“Huh?” Neville’s chopsticks hover over the bowl, the rice falling out of them.

“Scorpius is enough for me. And you’d be an incredible father, but I don’t want more children.” He pokes his rice with a chopstick. “If it’s a dealbreaker, we should talk about it.”

Neville sets his bowl down, leaning back against the couch. “I don’t know that I want kids. I mean, I used to assume it would happen, but I wasn’t invested in it. And…well, this feels much too early, but I’d like to be someone to Scorpius. That would be plenty.”

“To be someone?” Draco echoes. “Neville, I love you. But Scorpius has parents.”

“R-right,” Neville stumbles, looking surprised. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t…I just thought I could be an adult in his life who cares.”

Draco reaches out to pat Neville’s knee. “I don’t mean to say that you two are separate parts of my life. I want you to be in his life, but as my partner. I just need to make the boundaries clear.”

“Oh. That makes sense. I’m afraid I didn’t think about it much. My plan was to talk about trains and help him with homework.”

“He’s in daycare. They don’t get any.”

“Great, well, there’s a lot to fill me in on.”

Draco can’t help a snort, but returns to being serious. “You have to be honest with me. I don’t want you to sacrifice what you want for us.”

Neville gathers Draco’s hands in his, kissing his knuckles. “I promise. I would make plenty of sacrifices for you, but this isn’t one.” He leans in, cupping Draco’s jaw, and Draco revels in his touch, in the sweetness of the kiss. This is what he needed to chase away his ills.  
  
After a minute, Draco pulls back. “Since we’re expecting a four-year-old visitor soon, let’s stick to food.”

“Mmm, one more taste?"

Draco picks up a bell pepper with his chopsticks and feeds it to Neville. “Here.”

“Two can play that game.” Neville takes noodles and waves them in front of Draco’s face. Draco attempts to save face by remaining stoic, but after his stomach rumbles again, he caves and takes a bite. They continue this until Scorpius interrupts, rubbing his eyes and whining that he can’t sleep without Daddy, so Draco lets himself be whisked away. Neville is left to clean up and show himself out, but is so gracious that Draco doesn’t bother with an apology.

Merlin, he chose well.


	18. protea // courage

Draco and Scorpius spend the next couple weekends at the mansion. Father gives Draco the silent treatment and Mother doles it out to Father in turn.

Dysfunction, it seems, is hard to root out.

But Draco never regrets telling them, especially when Neville brings him a thermos of tea after class or whispers something sweet to him in passing. Neville becomes a fixture at dinner, clumsily chopping vegetables and later washing the dishes. They keep Valentine’s Day simple, too, though Neville brings him an astonishing bouquet from the greenhouses. It’s a mundane sort of magic.

 

*

The next weekend, he and Scorpius forego the Manor. Instead, they go to a London café. Draco forlornly stares down at the dregs of his double-shot espresso. Why did he quit smoking? He hasn’t felt a craving this strong in months.

Scorpius sits on the next chair. He’s been staring through the window at the throngs shoving and crowding each other. Now he turns to face Draco, streaks of mayonnaise and crumbs around his mouth. “Daddy, I finished!”

“And half of it’s on your mouth. Come here.” Scorpius wriggles in protest as Draco firmly wipes his mouth off with a cloth napkin. “Remember, best manners today.”

“Is Mrs. Longbottom scary?”

“No. No, she’s not scary.” He’s lying through his teeth.

The café bell tinkles. Neville enters, ruddy wind-stained cheeks poking out of a blue scarf. He pushes his way through the clamoring Muggles waiting for a table, then tugs the scarf down to offer a smile. “Good morning, Scorpius.”

Instead of responding, Scorpius tugs on Draco’s sleeve and stage whispers, “Daddy, we didn’t save any food!”

Neville chuckles. “Don’t worry. There’s plenty where we’re going.” They wave at the proprietor, a stunning half-veela in her fifties. Then they step behind a curtain into the magically concealed back room, where they Floo to Augusta’s parlor.

As they emerge, they’re met with a thin-lipped stare. Augusta sits in front of the tea set, hands folded primly in her lap. Draco’s eyes dart to the clock: five minutes early. He nearly sighs with relief. “Augusta. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

She shakes his hand, glancing over his sharp suit. “Mr. Malfoy. I believe my grandson would prefer if I call you Draco.”

Neville leans down to kiss her cheek. “I would. Thanks for having us, Gran.”

She’s more stooped than he remembers, and she looks a little small under her riotously blue hat. But she still makes his palms sweat when she says, “I think it’s high time we met again, don’t you?”

Neville doesn’t take this as the sign of disapproval that Draco does. “You’ll have to thank him for the improvement in my wardrobe.”

Augusta motions for them all to sit. They do, Draco scooping Scorpius onto his lap. He may be an adult, but he is not above using his son as a shield. Her eyes glance over Neville’s clothes. “Neville has a tolerable figure, but you’ve given him the element he lacked—good taste. I commend you on that.”

Draco murmurs something noncommittal and glances at his boyfriend, who looks back at him with a warm smile of reassurance. Draco clears his throat. “This is my son, Scorpius.”

Something in Augusta’s gaze softens as she looks at Scorpius. Not that she betrays much, but there’s warmth in the way she says, “It is nice to meet you, young man.”

Scorpius nods at her shyly. Draco chides, “Use your words, Scor.”

He mumbles, “Nice to meet you, Neville’s grandmother.”

“Call me Augusta. Eat something.”

“I already ate a sandwich.”

“How about a madeleine?”

Scorpius turns to Draco for permission, and he nods. Manners forgotten, Scorpius happily stuffs himself. Draco prompts him gently. “Is there anything you want to ask Augusta?”

Scorpius swallows. “Are you very old?”

Draco freezes, but Augusta only says wryly, “Terribly. I intend to stick around as long as possible.”

“My grandmother is also old. She’s…” Scorpius starts counting on his small fingers, nose wrinkled in thought. “Thirteen.” Neville snorts into his tea.

Augusta sets her cup down. Draco tenses, but she only says, “It’s been a number of years since I’ve spent time with a child. I did find some old books of Neville’s upstairs.” She lifts herself up slowly, shooting Neville a glare when he tries to assist, and takes measured steps to the table and back. In her ribbed hands is a pile of well-worn children’s books, the pictures on their covers weaving and bobbing in faded colors. Scorpius’s eyes light up. “Does he like to read?”

“I’m not sure he likes anything better,” Draco replies. “What do you say?”

Scorpius has already hopped off his lap to receive the books. He mumbles, “Thank you very much.” Then he dashes behind the couches to spread his new treasures out on the floor.

“Good. When he was younger, I could hardly get Neville to look at one. Now look at all he’s achieved. I never thought he’d become such a worthy young man.” Neville’s jaw drops slightly, caught off guard by the praise, but Draco knows why. _I hope you know exactly how much my grandson is worth._ “The future is an eternal surprise. You and your son are only the latest one.”

Draco decides to backtrack. “Neville’s always been hardworking, though, even since our school days. And he has something much rarer—moral courage. I couldn’t hope to find a better role model for Scorpius.”

“Then your son knows about this relationship?”

“He will. I think he has an inkling now, since his mother also has a partner.”

“Yes, I know. You and Neville are not committed enough for that conversation?” There’s a sharp glint in her eyes.

Neville frowns, placing a hand on Draco’s knee. “We’re serious. He’s waiting to resolve things with his father first.”

“Ah, Lucius. To be frank, your father has always been a close-minded man. And your mother?”

“She supports us,” Draco says, trying to regain his confidence. “And the arrangement with my ex-wife is very amicable. I believe that my Father’s love for Scorpius will overcome any prejudice on his part.”

“Is that a guarantee?” A pause follows as Draco fumbles for words. “Seems that there are difficulties in store for you both.”

“With all due respect, Augusta, isn’t that true for any relationship? But Neville and I have discussed them frankly, and we’re committed to each other.”

“I see.” She holds out a plate of tea cakes, and Draco politely takes a bite. Merlin, that raspberry flavor is good. Who are her house-elves? “You are well-mannered, well-educated, and a good fit for society. Rare qualities these days. And I have no reason to revisit your past. But both you and my grandson are highly visible figures. I have spent considerable resources on keeping your names out of the Prophet. In fact, Barnes—head editor now, mind you—has personally called me three times asking for an exchange of information. I’d hardly call them journalists if they have to resort to squeezing me for their society column.”

Neville looks utterly surprised, which is sweet. But Draco isn’t naïve. He replies, “I am very grateful. I would prefer to stay out of the limelight, had I the choice.”

“You do not. And you are sure to brook disapproval from your friends and acquaintances. Have you told them?”

They glance at each other. Neville stutters, “N-not yet. We thought we should tell you first, Gran.”

“Ah.” She sips her tea. “Then let me advise you: I am not the one you need to worry about.” Is that a twinkle in her eye? Draco and Neville glance at each other, exchanging smiles of relief. Augusta reaches for the teapot. “Have another cup. Neville tells me you have spent considerable time abroad. Would you say you’re familiar with the great cities of Europe?”

 

*

 

To ease Scorpius into seeing Neville as Draco’s partner, they need to bond, so Neville introduces him to herbology. They read a few picture books about plants and visit the Hogwarts greenhouses, Draco always hovering in the background. Scorpius slowly opens to it: a bud unfurling into a flower.

One evening, Neville arrives with a pot and a packet of calendula seeds, since they’re easy for children to grow. Scorpius spends a whole hour crouched in front of the pot, willing it to hurry up. Neville finally tells him, “Plants are friends. If you talk to them, they’ll be happy.”

“Plants can talk?”

“No,” Neville chuckles, “not most of them. But they’re the best listeners in the world.”

Draco walks over and sets down a plate of sliced apples before pulling Neville aside. “This is all very sweet, but are you trying to pass your habits onto my son?”

“I thought it might be healthy. I—wait, it’s in my bag somewhere—well. Hold on.” Neville fumbles for a moment, his bag stuffed with crumpled sheets of parchment. “No. Oh! Here, _Herbology Weekly_ had this study on how talking to plants can help with residual trauma. I know it’s not my place, but I thought—”

Draco gently presses a finger to his mouth. “Okay. We’ll try it.” It’s hard, sometimes, not to kiss Neville on the spot. 

 

*

 

Draco clutches his boxes of brussel sprouts and spiced yams until his knuckles turn white. “They know I’m coming? All of them?”

“Of course. I’m not trying to walk you into a lion’s den,” Neville replies with a fond smile. He looks nervous too, though, as if he’s trying to convince himself.

“Maybe McGonagall got called away to Beauxbatons and nobody can watch Scorpius. Or Hogwarts is being overrun by a troll and all the professors have to return.”

Neville huffs out a laugh. “You’re not losing your nerve, are you?”

Immediately, Draco straightens and fixes him with a haughty expression. “Hardly. Just cover me if Weasley shoots off a hex.”

“Which Weasley?”  
  
“You know which one,” Draco replies with an eyeroll. “Though I suppose keeping an eye on Ron’s alcohol consumption wouldn’t hurt.”

Neville grins, looking a little better. Fine. Draco can do anything for his boyfriend. He opens the bright purple gate, ignoring the bizarre objects scattered on the lawn, and leads the way to the front door of the Lovegood house. With a steadying breath, he knocks.

Lovegood opens it, beaming. “Welcome! Everyone else is here, but don’t worry. Hermione made them come early.” This time Draco is prepared for the spangled blue dress and the tiara of…melting spoons?

Neville hands her a small package wrapped in silver paper. “Here’s our present. Happy belated birthday, Luna. How was Senegal?”

“The Erumpent sanctuary is wonderful. I have photos of them feeding, if you’d like to see.”

“Sounds lovely,” Neville replies with a brief hug. “And who’s the mysterious Rolf you mentioned?”

“A very nice magizoologist. Did you know he writes for the Prophet?”

Draco says, “Oh, Rolf Scamander. I’ve seen his column. Here, I brought some sides.”

Luna closes the door behind them. “The sanctuary’s anti-poaching spellwork is very intricate, and they’re very careful about who can see the Erumpents. I spent three weeks applying for the visitor’s permit. Draco, follow me.” Taking Draco’s hand, she pulls him with her into the kitchen, with Neville mouthing ‘don’t worry’ at him.

Right.

Luna has cooked for an army, including an alarmingly large pile of garlic mashed potatoes. She rattles off Erumpent facts for a couple minutes before pausing. “Draco?”

He leans back against the counter and exhales. “Sorry. Do you have wine?”

Luna tilts her head. “I tried making some cranberry wine myself for the occasion, but I’m afraid the ginger didn’t take, and the whole thing’s come out a bit sour. You could try it, but Harry told me it was ‘positively poisonous’.”

“Never mind. It's probably better without.”

Luna glances at the ceiling, shushing something invisible (or nonexistent), before saying, “It’s wonderful that you and Neville are together. You’ve liked each other for so long. All of Neville’s friends should be happy, even if it takes them time. People fear change because they’re not prepared for it.”

Draco nods tightly. “‘Should’ is the operating word, but thank you. Has anyone told you that you're perceptive?”

“No, but Rolf said that my gait is as elegant as a Graphorn’s. Isn’t that lovely?”

“Romantic. Let me go greet the others.”

Draco moves to the dining room, where Weasley—Ron, since there are two flame-haired hotheads attending this evening—is glaring in outright hostility. Finnigan avoids eye contact, while Thomas stares as if Draco’s a bloody Hippogriff. Ginny’s arms are folded. Great. It’s Granger who says cheerily, “Hello, Draco! Care for spinach artichoke dip?”

Potter nods and awkwardly sticks a hand out. “Good to see you.”

Draco shakes the hand, biting back his inner frustrations, and accepts the plate of dip and crackers. “Things going well at the Ministry?”

“As well as they can,” Granger replies, running a hand through her wild curls.

Potter shrugs. “Always more trouble to root out.” Finnigan snorts, causing Draco to tense, and Neville fixes him with the most threatening glare Draco’s ever seen on his sweet boyfriend’s face. Thomas kicks Finnigan in the shins.

“What?” Finnigan replies, scowling. “I didn’t say anything!” Ron nods in agreement before Granger’s glare silences him.

“You didn’t need to, mate,” Thomas replies, with an apologetic glance at Draco.

Granger changes topic. “Neville said Scorpius is learning Herbology. Was that your idea?”

“Hardly,” Draco replies dryly, “but I’ve sanctioned it.” This wins him a weak chuckle from the group.

Thomas clears his throat. “So…did Luna make all those mashed potatoes for us, or is there an Erumpent in her suitcase?”

There’s a chorus of nervous laughs, and then Granger brings up a policy change at the Ministry regarding bathroom breaks. An argument between Ron and Potter flares up, a strategic move that lessens the tension. Minister of Magic for a reason, he supposes.

Luna calls from the kitchen, “Food’s ready!” Everyone starts drifting over except Neville, who curls a hand around two of Draco’s fingers with anxious stare.

“It’s fine,” Draco says quietly. “Really.”

“We can leave early,” Neville murmurs.

Draco sighs. “Don’t tempt me. Go bring me a plate.” With a light shove, he pushes Neville towards the food.

Neville ducks to kiss him on the cheek before taking off. Draco flushes, then turns and catches Ginny’s eye. She walks over, red hair swinging, and swallows a bite of mashed potatoes. “You can’t expect us to like it.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” Draco replies, though he tries to moderate the edge in his voice.

“Luna likes you, though.”

“And Neville’s opinion doesn’t count?”

“He’s too nice. Easy to trust, easy to get hurt.” She frowns, pausing to shovel down another forkful. “He never told me, you know. The first time around.”

Draco winces. “That’s my fault. I asked him not to.”

“If you screw him over again, his gran will pummel you before I get the chance.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

There’s nothing left to say. The standoff is interrupted by Potter, who hands Ginny a glass of punch. “Ah. Draco. So…follow Quidditch?”

“Uh, yes. Bad show for the Harpies. Sorry about your Keeper.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Me too. He’s a twat.”

Neville appears, handing Draco his plate. “What are we talking about?”

“Quidditch.”

Granger pipes up from behind him, “Oh, that was a bad miss. Ginny looked like she’d punch his lights out.” Lovegood nods knowingly, the halo of spoons glinting in the lamplight.

“I’d have liked to see that,” Potter replies with a smirk.

Ron ambles over and settles on the nearest couch. “We talking about your game, Gin?”

Thomas and Finnigan follow in his wake, the latter sneaking something out of a flask as Thomas asks cheerily, “What are we talking about?”

There’s a loud chorus of, “Quidditch!”

Finnigan nods. “Safe conversation topic, eh?” But another swift kick shuts him up.

Neville gives Draco another worried look, as if to ask silently, _You sure?_

About tonight? No. About Neville? Absolutely. So Draco raises his eyebrows and mouths, ‘Only for you, handsome.’

Neville blushes so furiously that soon half the room notices, leading to loud groans and shouts of, “Get a room!” and “Nobody wants to see that, mate!” Luna beams, far more smug than she has any right to be. For a moment he feels suspended in an otherworld—a common room with a fire just as warm, where they're all wearing robes and ragging on each other, House allegiances forgotten. The might-have-been that he never dreamed could really happen.  
  
Maybe, Draco muses, he’ll survive this night.


	19. phlox // harmony

Mother takes Scorpius to bed. Draco’s at the kitchen table, flipping through _Potioneering Britannia,_ when Father enters the room. The silence is dense, but Draco automatically casts a spell to heat the kettle, then resolutely focuses on his reading.

A couple minutes later, a chair scrapes. Father sits and sets down two mugs of piping hot tea.

Draco stares at him openly.

Father clears his throat. “I don’t understand why you and your mother are punishing me for your choice. _But,_ ” he continues as Draco simmers, “I can see that you’re serious. If you want the Longbottom boy, then that’s that.”  

It’s a meager apology, if it even qualifies, but Draco knows his father. This will have to do. “You’ll be polite to Neville. And you won’t say anything disparaging to Scorpius.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Father replies, scowling. “I can’t pretend to understand…” He trails off, waving his hand in a meaningless gesture. “That lifestyle. But I’m not a barbarian.” Father’s jaw works; it’s clear what this concession costs his pride.

Draco can make a concession too. “I know,” he says, taking a sip of the tea.

Father directs his gaze towards the door. “It’s good when you come here.” And before Draco can respond, he’s unfolded the newspaper and hidden behind it. They spend the rest of the evening that way.

When Draco sets off with Scorpius the next day, Mother takes Father’s arm for the first time in a month. 

 

*

Draco decides to tell his son strategically, after a toad-shaped peppermint cream at Honeyduke’s. The snow has mostly melted and March has coaxed out a few patches of green grass. Draco carries their brooms towards the castle grounds. “Hey, Scor. You know how Mommy has Estefania?”

Scorpius nods. “Nia is mommy’s girlfriend.”

“That’s right. Well, Daddy has a boyfriend too now. It’s Neville. You know Neville. I want to know what you think.”

Scorpius considers this, puckering and un-puckering his mouth pensively. Draco’s stomach twists on itself.

Draco tries a different tack. “Do you like Neville?”

Scorpius nods. “He’s nice and he likes my trains.”

Draco exhales in relief. “I think so, too. Do you have questions?”

“Can I still see Mommy?”

“Of course you can, Scor.” Draco pauses to kneel, setting the Nimbuses down and tugging Scorpius’s wooly hat over his ears. “We’re still your parents. And we’re going to see her for Easter, remember? The whole holiday.”

“Soon?”

“Very soon. But before that, should we start your next flying lesson?”

Scorpius hops in excitement. “Yes yes yes!”

Draco kisses his cheek before standing again. “Let’s go.”

 

*

 

Draco intercepts Neville at the door. “I told him.”

“And?”

“He seems fine with it.”

Neville nods. Before he can say anything else, Scorpius is in the foyer, eyeing Neville carefully. “Hi, Neville. Daddy said you’re his boyfriend.”

“Yes, and he’s my boyfriend,” Neville says with a tentative smile. “Is that okay?”

“It’s okay. But you have to be nice to Mommy.”

“I promise,” Neville says, hand over his heart.

“And you have to play trains with me.”

Neville grins. “I promise.”

“And you have to let me eat lots of candy!”

“No, Daddy’s not letting that happen. Come on, go eat.” Draco pokes his son’s nose; Scorpius crinkles it and scurries into the kitchen. “That boy is getting cheekier by the day. The Malfoy blood is kicking in.”

“You said it before me,” Neville says, earning himself a pinch.

 

*

 

The semester flies by on Snitch’s wings. Soon Easter weekend is nearly upon them. Draco is composing a packing list when Neville arrives at the cottage. “Late night?”

“Don’t get me started on the papers I got today. I’m afraid I’ll have to arrange more remedial lessons.” Neville leans down for a kiss. “Lovely weather, too, so I had to start checking on the plants. The blooms are coming.”

“I’ll have to drop by soon, then. Here, sit. I’m afraid I’ve only had time to throw together bubble and squeak.”

“No complaints here,” Neville replies, digging into a forkful.

“I should hope not. Do you think I should pack Scorpius a spare toothbrush?”

“I think there will be toothbrushes in Barcelona. Anyway, doesn’t he already have a set of things with Astoria?”

“Good point. Remind me why I’m making a packing list.”

Neville shrugs. “You like to organize when you’re anxious.”

Anxious? Draco thinks back to his time in Barcelona years ago: bitterly swearing at a pushy man in the club, retching and crying in a back alley by himself, spending most hours with a flask near at hand. It’s not a picture he’d like to paint for Neville.

He shakes off the memory. “I suppose Astoria likes to needle me, and without you there to keep her polite, she’s won’t hold back. Then add sangria to that mix.” Draco sighs. “Tell me I’m going to enjoy myself.”

“It’ll be wonderful. I’ll be terribly jealous of the sunshine and the orchids. There are some rare varieties from Andalusia.”

“Are there?” Draco pauses thoughtfully. “Would you like to join us?”

“In Spain?” Neville frowns. “I can’t interrupt a family trip.”

“If Estefania is there, why not you? I’d have a much better time if you came, and Astoria has been wanting an introduction. We can always get a hotel if it’s too much strain on Astoria. And,” he glances at Scorpius scribbling with crayons at the table, “I think we could use some hotel time.”

Neville clears his throat loudly. “Right. I mean—I have some work for Saturday.”

“Portkey later and meet us there. You can leave early, too, or even go off on your own for research purposes. I don’t mind.”

“You’re sure?”

Draco laces their fingers together. “Only if you want to.”

Neville beams. “Can’t think of anything better. Can you make my packing list too?”

“You haven’t once made a packing list in your life.”

“And now I won’t need to,” Neville replies. “Consider it my formal invitation.”

With a flourish of his hand, Draco summons fresh parchment. “Very well. How many toothbrushes shall you require, Professor Longbottom?”

“Sixteen should do nicely.”

“Sixteen it is. Let’s move on to the essentials.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “How many condoms will do nicely?”

Neville laughs and nearly chokes on his food: concrete proof that love is a dangerous affair.

 

*

 

The April wind continually ruffles his hair. Draco has to keep pushing it back into place. “Maybe he forgot the time. He’d forget his own head.”

“Maybe,” Astoria says with mild annoyance, “he’s just running late. Will you relax?” She’s kneeling on a beach towel and carefully placing shells on a sand castle.

“I am relaxed.” He tries to direct his gaze to the ocean rather than the Portkey, an old radio in the window of a dilapidated surfboard stand nearby.

“Right, and I’m Rita Skeeter.” She perks up as Estefania and Scorpius return with melting cups of gelato, leaning over to kiss her girlfriend. “Love, don’t you think Draco needs a spa day?”

Estefania raises an eyebrow. “I think you want a spa day, but I’ll go along with it.”

“We could get Scorpius a facial.”

“There’s enough on his face right now,” Draco says, looking at the ring of chocolate around Scorpius’s mouth. “Is it good, Scor?”

“Yummmmmmy!” he chirps.

Astoria grins. “Come here, sweet pea.” She takes a napkin from Estefania to wipe it off.

Someone materializes inside the shack. Draco shoots to his feet, then realizes how clingy he’s being. He pauses, then calls out nonchalantly, “Over here!” Astoria snickers and he shoots her a warning look.

Neville emerges, bundled in an overcoat and a scarf. “Bit warm, isn’t it?” He kisses Draco’s cheek. “’lo, Astoria. You must be Estefania. I like the hair.”

“Nice to meet you,” Estefania says, extending a hand. Her pixie cut is a ripple of purples and pinks that Scorpius can’t get enough of.

Astoria gets to her feet. “An absolute pleasure to have you,” she says, ignoring his hand and opting for a hug that Neville clumsily returns. “I suppose I’ll have to behave now.”

“Please,” Draco says emphatically.

She winks. “I think my sand castle’s finished. Let’s go drop your stuff off, and then the adventure begins!”

Neville beams down at Draco, who forgets himself for a moment and says, “I missed you.” And he did: he missed Neville’s solidity, his sweetness. Without Neville to soften his edges, Draco’s out of sorts. It’s so horrendously cheesy, but it’s barely been a minute and already he feels whole again.

“Me too.” Neville takes his hand.

“Oh, of _course_ you’re that sort. No wonder we divorced.” Before Draco can defend himself, Astoria gives them a light shove from behind. “Onwards!”

 

*

 

The five of them mill around a courtyard of the Alhambra. The sky is a piercing, vibrant blue. Scorpius is examining his reflection in one of the trickling fountains. Neville is taking field notes on the foliage, totally absorbed in his work. Estefania snaps yet another photograph of ‘the lighting’. Supposedly this is the artistic process. Draco is prone to sunburn, so he rests in the shade.

Astoria wanders back to him. “Really, Draco, done already?”

“Done with what? We’re here to look, so I’m looking.”

“I guess you’re right.” She stands next to him, adjusting her floppy hat. “Neville says he’s never seen this sort of pimpernel before.”

“He showed me. Frankly, I can’t remember seeing any sort of pimpernel in my life.”

She grins. “You know, you’ve always been snarky with me, but with him it loses all the bite. You’re quite the sappy couple.”

“Sappy?” Draco echoes, offended.

“Like a treacle tart. Not that I mind it. It’s cute.”

Draco has no snark-free response to that, so he decides to leave well enough alone. “What’s the Spanish Hogwarts?”

“First of all, you can’t go around calling schools the ‘something Hogwarts’. And there is none. Most of them go to Beauxbatons.”

“I see. Do they speak French then?”

“Haven’t the faintest. You’ll have to ask Estefania, but she did alternative schooling.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“It may or may not have broken the codes of the Department of Magical Education. Mum’s the word.”

“I’m sworn to silence. Wouldn’t be the first time.” He instinctively brushes the cloth on his left wrist.

She shares his dark sense of humor, so she only chuckles. “By the way,” she says quietly, “thank you. For doing this.”

Maybe it’s Neville’s presence nearby, but he replies seriously, “I like when we’re being a family. Isn’t that what we really wanted the whole time?”

“Yeah,” she says, “and to not fuck more than we had to, so I suppose everything’s worked out as well as it could.”

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “This is why we can’t have pleasant conversations.”

“Sorry!” she replies, giggling. “I’m sorry!”

“Are you?”

“No,” she confesses, and laughs hard enough that there are tears in her eyes and a group of Muggle tourists glowers at them. Estefania gives them a bemused look, and even Neville glances up from journaling. His son darts back to them, elated even though he has no idea what’s happening.

There’s no way in hell that Draco will say it now, but he likes that Scorpius has her smile.

 

*

 

They let the women handle Scorpius for a night and decide to go on a date. Draco surprises Neville by Apparating to his favorite restaurant. It’s small, tucked away on a quiet side street, and guitar music wafts outside with the aromas. The swinging door has a white flower on it. “I promise,” Draco says, “the paella is as good as the ambience.”

“Is this Astoria’s recommendation?” Neville’s in his nicest button-down, a sleek dark gray, and Draco realizes how long it’s been since they had a proper date.

“No, it’s mine. I used to live in Barcelona.”

“Really? You didn’t mention that before.”

“It was back in the dark ages. Remember the years when I roamed the continent and drank a bottle a night? This was a stop.”

“You could have told me.”

Draco offers an apologetic look, kissing Neville’s cheek. “Sorry. I never did any of the sightseeing, and I figured mentioning it might dampen the spirit of adventure. I was a waiter at this restaurant for a couple months. Nicest Muggles you’ll find.”

As if on cue, a Spanish woman greets them with an enthusiastic, “¡Draco!”

“Hola, Juana.” He chats briefly with her in his limited Spanish; after all, he had largely been hired to handle tourists. “Sí, muy bien. Yo tengo un hijo, Scorpius. ¿Cómo está Ana? Felicitaciones. No, él es mi novio. No, ah, no tengo una esposa. Divorce. Ah, sí. Gracias.”

Juana shows them to a table in the back and says loudly, “No pay! No pay! Paella and sangria yes?”

Neville nods, looking delighted, and Juana disappears. “Is there anything you haven’t done?”

Draco replies mildly, “I haven’t fed you good paella.”

“Thank you. This is wonderful,” Neville replies, sneaking a quick peck. “I mean, the beaches, the city, the trip to Grenada, it’s all been wonderful.”

“You’ve made it all more bearable,” Draco replies. “There are some—some dark memories here, and I’d like to collect better ones. With you.”

Neville nods. “I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly, unless it bothers you.”

“Of course not. I just hope you’ve been enjoying yourself.”

“No, of course I am.” Draco groans. “Morgana, we really are a sappy couple, aren’t we?”

“Who said that?”

“Astoria. Who else?”

“Well,” Neville replies cheerily, “I like the sound of it.” The waiter brings them their glasses of sangria, and Neville raises his. “To the sappy couple.”

“Merlin’s saggy trousers, Neville, do you expect me to toast to a pun?”

In a similar fashion, the night goes on.

 

*

 

Their hotel reservation was an _excellent_ idea, and Draco doesn’t have to say so himself.

 

*

 

As soon as they’re back at Hogwarts, the work piles on. After all, exams are fast approaching. He’s buried in his office a couple days after their return when Draco receives a peculiar owl.

_Please join me for afternoon tea at your earliest convenience. There is a matter I’d like to discuss, and I would appreciate if you didn’t mention it to my grandson. – Augusta_

He does not like the sound of that.

 

*

 

He Floos into the parlor five minutes early. Again, she’s already waiting, thin hands patiently folded on her lap. The first thing that strikes him is how fragile she looks. Her sweater envelopes her entirely, and there’s a slight tremor as she stands to greet him. “Draco. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too.” He sits on the couch. She reaches out with a cup of tea, and as her hands shake, it rattles on its saucer. He quickly takes it from her.

“I’m glad to hear that you’ve won your father’s acceptance, however grudging. You were right—nothing will part Lucius from his family.”

“So am I. I never wanted to hide Neville.”

“No. I was glad to hear that you took him to Barcelona. He rarely shows an interest in culture that isn’t horticulture.” The pun surprises Draco enough that he forgets to laugh, especially since she forges on without cracking a smile. “How many months has it been since you started seeing each other?”

“Just over two.”

“Quite. Neville never takes photographs, but it seems your wife’s girlfriend gave him her photos from the trip. Quite talented. She’s a rising star in the art world. Perhaps I’ll be lucky enough to cultivate her acquaintance soon.”

Ever the social climber, Draco muses. “It can be arranged.” There’s a long pause, until Draco gently addresses the silent question hovering over them. “Augusta, are you well?”

“Fine, fine.” She doesn’t seem fine.

“What did you want to discuss?”

Augusta replies, with a perfectly serious face, “Yes, let’s address that.” She turns herself towards him, looking him directly in the eyes. “I have a favor to ask you.”

"Anything within reason.”

She grins. “How Malfoy of you. Well,” she says matter-of-factly, “if it's not too much trouble, I was hoping you'd propose to my grandson.”


End file.
